


On Our Knees (We Pray For Peace)

by ChronicTonsillitis



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fleabag AU, Light Angst, Size Kink, That's a lie, and uh, as a treat, did I say light angst?, hot priest au, okay yeah she's just porn now, probably gonna be a little porny later, there is a lil plot, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23758483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicTonsillitis/pseuds/ChronicTonsillitis
Summary: Clarke rips back the curtain, stomping over to the other side of the confessional and throwing open the door.And there he is, Bellamy Blake, in the full nine yards: embroidered frock and collar. She’s just bared her soul to her childhood crush, her former best friend’s older brother. He’s gotten even hotter with age, she notes grimly, the fact that he is dressed like a Catholic wet dream notwithstanding.He stares back at her with startled eyes. “Clarke?”****the fleabag/hot priest AU that nobody asked for (okay, fine, that I asked for) (oh and I think this tied for Best Smut Fic WIP in the 2020 BFWAs, so: thank you! and read it)
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 383
Kudos: 665





	1. a confession of sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're purely here for the smut that would be in chapters 3, 5 and probably all of them after that

Clarke decides to convert to Catholicism for the duration of her current mental breakdown. 

Why not? Mindfulness hasn’t helped, and she sure as hell can't afford real therapy, at least not without admitting to Abby what she wants the money for. From what she’s seen on TV, she figures confessional might be close enough. And with the amount of guilt she feels, whether it’s Catholic guilt or just the standard kind, she thinks she should fit in just fine.

She follows the signs into the church. It’s nearing the end of the posted times for confessional, and the church looks pretty much deserted, but Clarke figures it’s for the better. She’ll feel less bad about hi-jacking the ritual if there isn’t a line of people waiting to go next.

Steeling herself, she slides open the curtain and steps into the booth.

Clarke stands for a moment awkwardly, her head almost brushing the ceiling of the booth. “Um, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she starts, and then pauses, shifting uncomfortably. “Sorry, should I sit down?”

She hears the priest hum affirmatively. “If you wish.”

“Right.” Clarke swallows and sits down, dropping her jacket next to her. “Anyways, yeah, I have sinned. It’s been, uh, 24 years, I guess, since my last confession—”

“Is this—” he cuts her off. “Sorry. Is this your first time?”

She frowns. He sounds a lot younger than she’d expected, and frankly, she doesn’t appreciate the interrupting. “Well, yes. Does it matter?”

“No, no,” he says. “It’s just— you don’t have to be quite so formal. If you want.”

Clarke huffs. “Okay then. Well, I’ve lied, more times than I can count. I’ve had sex before marriage, committed a bit of adultery, although it was accidental. Definitely some disrespecting my parents, although I can’t say it isn’t warranted—”

“That’s not—” he sighs, and Clarke glares at the shadowy form behind the grate. “Why don’t you just skip to why you’re here?”

Clarke fidgets uncomfortably, looking down at her hands. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m just trying to have my sins generally forgiven.”

“Is that so?” He asks gently, and Clarke flushes.

“No,” she mumbles. “I guess that’s another mark against me.”

Clarke leans forward, hunching over her lap. She focuses her eyes on the carpet of the booth, tracing the patterns.

“I just—” She stutters, fumbling for the words. “I’m not a good person.”

He hums contemplatively. “What makes you say that?”

“I just know it! I ruin things, I hurt people. All of my friends hate me, for some reason or another.Every time I try to help them or fix things I mess it up even worse. And even with my school, and my future, I can’t feel things the way they want me to. I don’t— I don’t care about people enough.”

“It sounds like you care a great deal,” he replies, his voice gentle.

“No,” Clarke denies. “It’s like— I’m in med school, right? And everybody there, they all have this, like, higher calling. They all have some special story, when they knew they were meant to be a doctor. And I’m just there because my mom wanted me to go, and because I’m good at it.”

“Medicine is a noble pursuit,” he says and Clarke groans.

“That’s what I mean!” She cries, throwing her hands up in frustration. “I’m not noble. I’m just… there.”

“I think regardless of your intent, being a doctor is a net good thing.”

Clarke huffs. “I don’t know why I’m telling you, given your profession. It’s not like you’d get it. You probably tumbled out of the womb, halo already firmly affixed.”

He chuckles lowly. “Not quite, but I like the imagery.”

“I just—” she breathes, and stumbles over the words. “I went to med school because my mom is a doctor, and she wanted me to to, but I haven’t even spoken to my mom in almost six months. We haven’t been on great terms since my dad died, but even then we talked. She’s… well, she’s an addict, at least she has been for a while. Eventually it’s going to kill her, but she won’t stop. And I couldn’t watch her do it, act like everything was alright, and just pretend I couldn’t see her hands shaking or hear her slurring her words. I tried to— but I couldn’t, and I just _left_.”

Tear are starting to build up in Clarke’s eyes, spilling salty over her cheeks, and she wipes them away ineffectively. 

“I just left,” she repeats, her voice tight in her throat. She clenches her hands. “And my girlfriend, sorry, my _ex_ -girlfriend—” 

She cuts herself off, realizing where she is. Is she allowed to be bi in church? She probably should’ve checked online. 

“What about your ex-girlfriend?” The priest prompts calmly, and Clarke figures it must be fine.

“She left me for her ex. She said I didn’t love her enough, or in the right way, or something, I don’t know. And I thought— I loved her so much, as much as I was able. I tried so hard to be what she wanted, to give her what she wanted, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t—” Clarke breaks off, her shoulders shaking from the sobs. She drops her head into her hands.

“So you see, Father, it’s me. It has to be me. The common denominator in all the bad things in my life is that I’m in them, fucking them up. And I can’t stop doing it. Nobody will even talk to me. So, please, just tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix it. What prayers I need to say or penance I need to do. Just tell me, please, how to love people enough to not fuck it up.”

He considers for a moment, pausing thoughtfully. When he answers, his voice is hesitant. “Do you want my God answer or my life answer?”

He sounds so young, his voice almost familiar and Clarke laughs brokenly through her tears. “The life answer, please. I’m not sure I really believe in God.”

She jerks her head to the side as something crashes heavily to the ground outside the booth, opening one eye.

“Was that—?” she asks, and the priest lets out a low laugh.

“I love it when He does that,” he says lightly. Clarke decides that she is going to write this off as a coincidence, as she is not really willing to admit there is a higher power who knocks things over to prove a point.

“So, anyways, life answer.” The priest clears his throat. “Like I said, I wasn’t born a priest. I spent years living and loving and making mistakes before I found the church. I have a sister, probably about your age, who I love more than anything. Our mom wasn’t around much, so I practically raised her, but when our mom died, I had to take care of her for real. And I tried my best, but I didn’t— well, I messed up. She moved out the minute she graduated high school and hasn’t spoken to me since.”

Clarke nods slightly, her face still buried in her hands. Her best friend growing up had been in a similar situation, being raised by her woefully unprepared older brother after their mom had died when Clarke and Octavia were freshman. She spent a lot of her time in high school at the Blake house, and can viscerally remember their fights. Clarke and Octavia had fallen out a few months before graduation, and Clarke hasn’t heard from her since, but she can’t even imagine her cutting her brother out of her life for good. Even with the fights, Octavia had loved him fiercely. 

“Sometimes I hate myself for not handling things the right way, but sometimes I hate my mom for dying, and sometimes I hate my sister for leaving me. Those are just feelings. They don’t mean I don’t love my sister, and they don’t mean I didn’t love my mom.”

He is not a bad alternative to a therapist, Clarke thinks. His advice might be… almost comforting.

“Loving someone isn’t a job, and it isn’t a chore. There was something my mom taught me, and it’s how I ended up chasing my sister away. It was the first thing she told me when my sister was born. My sister, my responsibility.”

_No fucking way_. Clarke’s head shoots up, her eyes widening. Her pulse rockets.

“Bellamy?” She asks.

“Uh…no.” She hears the priest shift awkwardly on the other side of the booth, and her heart starts to beat normally again. She must have been wrong. 

He sighs. “Technically, it’s Father Blake.”

Clarke bolts up, a laugh of disbelief ripping from her lips as she fumbles for her jacket where it had fallen on the floor. Her face goes bright red, skin crawling with embarrassment.

“Why is everything in my life a cosmic joke?” she mumbles to herself. She wipes the tears roughly from her face with the back of her hand.

“Sorry?” She hears him say, and Clarke rips back the curtain, stomping over to the other side of the confessional and throwing open the door.

And there he is, Bellamy Blake, in the full nine yards, embroidered frock and collar. She’s just bared her soul to her childhood crush, her former best friend’s older brother. He’s gotten even hotter with age, she notes grimly, the fact that he is dressed like a Catholic wet dream notwithstanding.

He stares back at her with startled eyes. “Clarke?”

Clarke laughs again, the noise strangled in her throat and spins, storming through the empty church. 

He scrambles up out of the booth, rushing after her. “Clarke, wait!”

He stops her with an hand on her arm as she opens the door, sliding into the space so she can’t slip out. Clarke takes a step back and turns to face him, glaring. 

“I haven’t talked to Octavia since high school,” she says, and he flinches. Clarke tries to ignore the bitter hint of guilt that creeps down her throat. 

“That’s not why I’m here,” he says softly, so softly, and he looks at her with such sincerity that she can’t bear it. Clarke feels tears spring back to her eyes, and she turns her head slightly, trying to shield her face from his gaze. “I just wanted to give you this.”

He scribbles something onto a piece of paper and holds it out to her. A phone number.

Clarke looks from it, back to him. His eyes are dark and intent. “It’s my cell number. I know it’s probably weird, that it’s me. But you sound like you need someone to talk to, and I’m here, if you want. Call me or just come by.”

She opens her mouth to protest but he stops her, stepping closer to take her hands and close them around the slip of paper. He cups her hands between his own and Clarke’s skin prickles. His hands are big and warm, and his palms are smooth. 

“Just take it, Princess,” he says, his voice gruff.

Clarke nods slowly, looking down at their joined hands. The motion dislodges some of her hair, a few pieces falling into her face. One of his hands comes up and catches a curl, twisting the blonde stands around his fingers. Clarke watches, her mind going completely silent, embarrassment giving way into something a little less church appropriate.

“I’m not even Catholic,” she says dumbly, and Bellamy smirks, lips quirking up unevenly in a way Clarke finds alarmingly attractive.

“I know that,” he scoffs, tugging the curl fondly. She frowns, looking down at where his other hand still holds her own, and he steps in a little closer. 

She runs a light finger over the edge of his sleeve, the thick fabric smooth under her touch. His face is so close she can feel his breath warm on her cheek. Her brow wrinkles and she looks up, meeting his amused eyes. Her own eyes narrow. Was he— _flirting_ with her?

“You weren’t even Catholic,” Clarke accuses and Bellamy freezes, as if he's just now realizing their position. He drops his hands from her and takes a big step back, nearly colliding with the door behind him, clearing his throat. He won’t meet her eyes.

“Yeah, well,” he stutters, rucking a hand through his brown curls, “It’s been a while.”

Clarke hums in agreement. “Six years, just about.”

Bellamy nods. “And now you’re all grown up.”

Clarke tilts her head, popping one hip out. “And you’re… wearing a Jesus dress.”

“And I’m wearing a Jesus dress,” Bellamy agrees, holding out his hands to fully show off the fairly ridiculous outfit. He does a little twirl and Clarke snorts ungracefully.

Bellamy smiles at her, his eyes twinkling, and Clarke feels her heart leap in her chest. Damn, he is beautiful.

“But seriously,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, “Please come visit me. Even if it’s just to catch up. I’d like to see you again. We can have a drink or something, now that we’re both adults.”

She mulls it over, eyeing him contemplatively. “Are priests allowed to drink?”

“Oh fuck, of course,” he says. He sounds almost insulted by her question, and Clarke laughs. “Haven’t you heard of the blood of Christ?”

He really is too handsome for his own good. It shouldn’t be allowed, that face ( _those arms, that chest,_ Clarke thinks, her mind a bit cloudy) on a man of the cloth. It seems like a bit of a waste, depriving the good people of such a hot man. God should be ashamed.

“Well, in that case,” she says, smiling, “I suppose I could stop by sometime.”

She probably looks like a fucking disaster, eyes swollen and red, cheeks still wet with tears, but he smiles back at her like she’s the best thing he’s seen in years. He _is_ probably the best thing she’s seen in years.

“Good,” he says.

She nods back at him, shifting her purse on her shoulder. “Good.”

He’s still standing in front of the door, and she gives him a look. He catches her meaning and steps back, clearing his throat.

“Right, sorry,” he says quickly, shuffling back a bit awkwardly in the aisle of the church, and Clarke is fucking charmed. She feels her cheeks warm, and she moves to leave, swinging open the door.

“Clarke,” he calls, and she looks back.

He grins broadly at her, brown eyes crinkling in a way she remembers well. “It was nice to see you.”

She inclines her head in a mockingly serene manner. 

“God be with you, Father Blake,” she says, her voice chock full of fake sincerity.

He lets out a full-throated laugh, the sound echoing through the empty chapel. Clarke smiles and turns, stepping through the door.

“And also with you,” she hears him say behind her, his voice low. Clarke shivers as the door shuts behind her, heat curling deliciously in her belly.

_Yes_ , she thinks, _this is certainly going to end poorly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry?
> 
> comments and kudos are a balm unto my soul


	2. harmless(?) teasing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her lips quirk up in a playful smile. “Of course not, daddy.”
> 
> Bellamy chokes on his drink, sputtering ungracefully.
> 
> “The correct term—” he says, face comically red, “—is Father.”

It takes Clarke two days to end up back at the church. She goes to mass, watching him so intently she screws up the lines, speaking when nobody else does, and Bellamy meets her eyes, smiling. He stutters through the next part of his sermon, and Clarke catches his eyes darting towards her, his lips quirking up. She smirks back at him. 

She talks to him briefly after the service, joking about his speech, but they’re interrupted by an elderly parishioner. The older lady cuts in between them and grasps Bellamy’s hand, speaking to him in a way that is both intense and, Clarke thinks, a bit inappropriately flirtatious, although perhaps that’s hypocritical of her given that she’s here primarily to flirt with him as well. He makes eyes at Clarke over the woman’s shoulder, as if begging for help, but Clarke just smiles and waves, slipping out of the church.

She’s back a few days later. It’s late evening, and she hadn’t called first, but he’s there. Bellamy invites her in, grinning broadly, offering drinks. Clarke accepts.

He’s dressed less flamboyantly Catholic this time, just the classic black shirt and pants, and she could almost forget who he was and where they were if it weren’t for the churchy decorations and the little white collar at his throat.

“So,” she says, running one finger along the edge of a fairly raunchy painting of Jesus and Mary Magdalene, “Are we going to address the elephant in the room?”

Clarke looks back at Bellamy, and watches as he rummages through a mini-fridge in the corner of the parish office for some canned gin-and-tonics. She lets her eyes linger gratuitously on the curve of his ass in his tight black priest pants as he bends over. God couldn’t begrudge her such a simple pleasure, anyways. It just wouldn’t be fair.

“Aha!” He comes up with the drinks, and turns to face her, smiling wryly. “Which elephant exactly are you talking about?”

Bellamy tosses her a can. Clarke catches it and flinches at the cold condensation coating the outside. Cracking it open, she replies, “Take your pick.”

He opens his own drink and takes a long sip. Clarke tries not to stare at the bob of his throat as he swallows. She fails.

Bellamy frowns thoughtfully, his gaze fixed somewhere across the room. He’s taking a little too long to reply, and Clarke feels her skin start to go itchy with uncomfortable tension.

“Why don’t you start with how Bellamy Bradbury Blake, unrepentant sinner, ended up a humble servant of the Lord?” Clarke offers, ears pinking. She knocks back a big gulp of her drink to chase the awkwardness away.

He shrugs. “Had a rough go of it after the last time you saw me. Octavia left me, like I said last time. Went a little off the rails. We used to go to church when I was little, before O was born; my dad was Catholic. So one day I got drunk and ended up in a confessional, not unlike yourself.”

“For the record, I wasn’t drunk,” Clarke interjects, and he silences her with an unimpressed look. She takes another long pull of her drink in retaliation, gesturing at him to continue.

“Anyways, the priest, Father Pike, took me under his wing. Straightened me out, taught me to see God and good in the world. I realized I was meant to help people, so I went to seminary.” He shrugs again, gesturing to the room around them. “And here I am.”

Clarke frowns. “No offense, but a priest, really? Couldn’t you help people some other way? If I remember correctly you didn’t really seem to have the temperament for it. God grant me the serenity and all that.”

Bellamy’s lips quirk up. “You seem to know quite a few bible snippets yourself, Clarke. Been brushing up?”

“Only for you,” she replies breathily, then laughs. “No, I really just know the stuff I’ve seen on TV.”

His eyes sparkle as he looks at her intently. “I could give you some things to read, if you want. Show you the other side of it.”

Clarke makes a face and he laughs. “Bellamy Blake, are you trying to save my soul?”

“If you’ll let me,” he says, deadly serious and Clarke swallows hard.

“Not sure there’s a whole lot left,” she says, joking, but it falls a bit flat. She looks down at the drink in her hands.

Bellamy leans on the edge of his desk, watching her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Clarke waves her hand dismissively and tries to laugh. “I think we’ll save the confessions for the confessional.”

He’s always been a little too intuitive, and the priest thing clearly hasn’t helped. Clarke feels like she’s under a microscope.

“Alright.” He nods. “How would you feel about a walk? Get a little fresh air.”

She looks up at him, questioning, and he smiles, just a little. “C’mon, Princess.”

He pushes off the desk and extends a hand to her. Grinning, she takes it.

One hand in hers, the other holding a bag of drinks, Bellamy leads her out into the garden surrounding the church, chatting happily about his day and the parish and an upcoming fundraiser.

Clarke follows, glad for the easy conversation. She tells him about her classes, and they sit on a bench together, a little too close, their backs facing the church.

He follows her story with one of his own from his time in the seminary, and Clarke can’t help it, scrunching up her nose a little at the thought.

“What’s that face?” he asks playfully, poking the bridge of her nose. “Something I said distasteful?”

She laughs. “No, sorry, it’s just so hard to imagine. Like college, but without the fun parts, I guess.”

He scoffs. “Who said there were no fun parts? I have fun.”

Clarke snorts, raising an eyebrow. “You used to. I don’t think your kind of fun is allowed in priest school.”

He takes a sip of his drink, grinning at her. “You’d be surprised what you can get away with.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Late night taking the lords name in vain?”

He lets out a loud chuckle, the sound cutting through the night, and Clarke smiles involuntarily. She opens another drink and takes a sip to cover it up.

“But seriously,” she says. “You have to admit, it’s a little out of character. What with all the things you have to give up. I just can’t imagine the old Bellamy being willing to take vows and all that.”

He eyes her curiously. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just surprised, is all,” Clarke says, shrugging, “I mean, having spent a lot of time around you back then, frankly I’m having trouble believing you would just walk away from all the—” 

She bites off the rest of her sentence, blushing as she takes another long drink. He looks at her curiously.

“The what?” he asks.

“You know,” she says, cheeks pink. She gestures obliquely at his crotch with the hand holding her drink. “That.”

Bellamy laughs. “They don’t actually castrate us, you know. Haven’t lost any parts down there.”

Clarke huffs. “Of course not, but—” 

She cuts herself off again and he smirks. “But what?”

“Oh, come on,” she groans. “You know what I mean.”

He grins, running a finger around the rim of his can. “I don’t know, Princess,”Bellamy drawls. “I think you need to spell it out for me.”

Clarke glares at him and he nods smugly. 

“The sex, Bellamy,” she spits out. “You didn’t exactly seem like the type to give up getting your dick wet.”

He looks vaguely insulted. “Getting my dick wet?”

She waves a hand lazily. “You know what I mean. I remember all those girls you used to bring home.”

There had been many, if she’s remembering correctly. At least one per weekend, sometimes more than one at the same time. He had been prolific and… loud, quite frankly. Clarke feels a throb between her thighs as she remembers the sounds she’d accidentally heard coming from his room when she’d come over unannounced a few times in high school. She crosses her legs.

She’s not going to say that Bellamy (and his overactive sex life) was her sexual awakening but she’s not going to say he wasn’t, either. He did walk around shirtless _a lot_. 

He shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I used to have a lot of sex. Now I don’t.”

She looks at him incredulously. “Don’t you… miss it?”

Clarke can’t imagine not having sex. Not that she’s been having a ton of it at the moment, all things considered, but she’d certainly _like_ to.

Bellamy chuckles, the sound deep and throaty. Clarke almost shivers. “Of course I miss it. But it’s just one of those things that comes with the territory.”

Clarke scoffs. “I don’t think I could do it.”

He smirks at her. “It’s really not as hard as it seems, Princess. After a while, you just kind of…get used to it.”

She frowns, looking over him carefully. “What happens if you meet someone you like?”

Bellamy sighs. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, and reaches out tugging on a curl that frames her face. “I invite her to hang out with me, give her unsolicited advice and shitty canned alcoholic beverages, and hope that the urge eventually goes away.”

His hand falls from her face to the top of her thigh and he smiles at her. Clarke feels something bloom hot in her lower belly, her chest buoyant with hope.

She grins back. “And what if you meet someone you love?”

He’s silent for a breath, and she looks back at him eagerly, waiting.

“We’re not going to have sex,” he says gently, and Clarke feels her heart sink. She keeps the smile plastered on her face.

“What are you talking about?” she asks, as if it hadn’t been the very thing she’d been thinking about since she’d first seen him.

He gives her a sad smile. “I know it’s what you think you want, but really it isn’t. It wouldn’t make you happy; _I_ wouldn’t make you happy.”

“You don’t know that,” Clarke says stubbornly. She looks down at where his leg presses against hers, where his palm rests heavy and hot on her bare thigh.

Bellamy squeezes gently then lets go, scooting back to put space between them on the bench. “I do though.”

Clarke pulls one leg up in front of her, wrapping her arms around her shin and resting her chin on her knee. 

“It would be really good sex,” she says, her tone petulant even to her own ears.

He laughs lightly. “Yes, it probably would.”

“Oh, shut up.” She glances over at him, her brows furrowed, gaze dark. “You’re mean.”

Bellamy swallows hard, eyes fixed on her. She watches, fascinated, as his Adam’s apple moves up and down. “Trust me, I know.”

Clarke tilts her head, looking at him appraisingly. 

“You want me,” she says, and it isn’t a question.

Bellamy nods slowly and she feels a rush of pride, adding to her growing lust. 

“So why not?” Clarke whines.

He barks out a desperate huff. “Do you want me to make a list?”

She raising her eyebrows, urging him to continue. Bellamy lets out a deep groan that goes straight to Clarke’s throbbing core.

“Well, for starters,” he says, leaning back against the bench, “There’s the obvious.”

He gestures to his outfit and Clarke nods sagely. “Bad taste in clothing.”

Bellamy’s eyes go wide and he chokes out a protest. “Excuse me, Princess, no. I meant the priest, vow of celibacy thing.”

“Oh, that.” She gives him a serene smile. “I’m sure God wouldn’t mind. Have you asked him?”

Bellamy snorts. “That’s _really_ not how this works.”

Clarke trails her fingers across his knee, noting how his jaw flexes. “So,” she asks, “Wasn’t this a list? What are the other reasons?”

“It would be wrong,” he says through gritted teeth, “to take advantage of you when you’re emotionally vulnerable. As a sort of authority figure.”

Clarke scoffs. “An authority figure? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Regardless of your opinion my current standing, I was one, once,” he reminds her. “Back when you were in high school. I can’t— I shouldn’t— think about you like that. You were my little sister’s friend.”

“I was, wasn’t I?” she says, tapping a finger to her lips. “Good thing it’s been a few years since then. Nothing to worry about.”

His eyes are heated, following her finger as she touches it to her mouth. Clarke cheers internally.

“I’m too old for you,” he says lowly, and Clarke smiles.

“Really scraping the bottom of the barrel there, aren’t we?” Watching him carefully, Clarke swipes a finger through a drop of her drink that has collected in the rim of her can. She touches it to her tongue and closes her lips around the tip, sucking the liquid off of it. She hums at the sweet flavor and Bellamy practically growls.

“We’re not going to have sex, Clarke,” he says firmly. He brings his can to his lips, eyes flashing. “I mean it.”

Clarke gazes back at him, taking in his expression. Her lips quirk up in a playful smile. “Of course not, daddy.”

Bellamy chokes on his drink, sputtering ungracefully.

“The correct term—” he says, face comically red, “—is Father.” 

“Is it?” Clarke asks lightly and Bellamy gives her unamused look. She shrugs. “My mistake.”

He groans and leans back, stretching one arm out across the back of the bench in the opposite direction of Clarke.

“You’re killing me, you know that?” he says under his breath, and Clarke smiles.

They settle into a comfortable silence, the only noises the sound of crickets and cars passing and their own even breathing.

Eventually, Clarke finishes her drink, and checks the time. 

“Crap, it’s late,” she says, jumping up. “I’ve got class at 7 tomorrow.”

She smiles brightly at him, stuffing her hands in her pockets. 

“It was good to see you,” She says, and turns to leave.

“Clarke!” he calls after her. She grins triumphantly, pausing. Clarke schools her expression before looking back at him. 

“Yes?”

Bellamy swallows hard. “Will you… will you be back?”

Clarke shrugs noncommittally. “Do you want me to? Even with all my… temptation?”

He nods slowly and she smiles. 

“Sure,” she says. “I guess I could come back.”

He grins back at her. “Good.”

“Good,” she says, and nods at him. “Goodnight, _Father_.”

And if she says it in the exact same tone as she said ‘daddy’ earlier, well, that’s between her and God.

“Clarke,” he grits out, his tone a warning, and she looks back innocently, her eyes wide.

“Did I get it right that time?” she asks, and he lets out a low groan.

“Yeah, Princess,” Bellamy says tightly. His eyes are hot and dark on her. “That’s right.”

She smiles at him, and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so they aren't fucking yet but like let's be honest it's gonna be real soon. 
> 
> this fic is not gonna be super plot heavy lol. It'll probably be another 2 weeks till the next chap at least, fair warning.
> 
> would love to hear your thoughts, as always. kudos are cherished as well.


	3. Proverbs 30:20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy opens the door with a smile, and immediately groans. “How is it,” he asks, looking over her outfit, “That I know you’re trying to seduce me, and it’s working anyways?”
> 
> Clarke perks up considerably. “It’s working?”
> 
> *****
> 
> this is just porn my god

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Proverbs 30:20 - This is the way of an adulteress: she eats and wipes her mouth and says, “I have done no wrong.”)

Clarke begins to get a bit frustrated with how things are progressing, or not, with Bellamy. She’s been by to see him a few times now, and it’s always nice, always fun, always flirtatious, but… she wants more. 

It’s a ridiculous thought, that she should be tempting a priest to sin, but she can’t help it. Where else is she supposed to get her thrills?

She shows up this time in a strategically planned outfit: a white button down that’s just a little too small and too see through, and a plaid skirt with over the knee socks. It’s not a Catholic schoolgirl uniform, not quite, but it’s dangerously close.

He takes a little too long to answer her knocks, and Clarke feels her heart begin to sink. The clothes were a stupid idea. What if someone saw her?

Bellamy opens the door with a smile, and immediately groans. “How is it,” he asks, looking over her outfit, “That I know you’re trying to seduce me, and it’s working anyways?”

Clarke perks up considerably. “It’s working?”

He gives her an unamused look, holding the door open wider for her to slip through. “Not quite,” he says dryly. “Should’ve gone for the pigtails.”

Clarke pouts dramatically. “That would’ve been too obvious.”

Bellamy snorts, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, okay, Britney Spears.” He starts his way back to his office, and waves at her to follow. “What are we drinking tonight?”

_Too much_ apparently is the answer, and a few hours later they’re sitting sprawled out on the couch in his office, her legs tucked across his lap.

“I always figured you’d end up a teacher,” Clarke muses, twirling a piece of hair. “Big nerd like you.”

Bellamy laughs. “I am a teacher, in a way. Of the scripture.”

Clarke groans, throwing her head back and poking him hard in the side with her feet. “Not that kind of teacher. Like, a professor.”

He smiles at her, playing along. “What kind of professor?”

Clarke frowns, considering. “History? No,” she says, and shakes her head. A smile slips across her face as she finds the right answer. “Classics!”

She pumps a fist in the air and he snorts. “Really?”

She looks back at him, grinning. “Don’t think I didn’t know you slept with that copy of The Iliad your entire teenage life.”

He laughs. “You say it like I kept it under my pillow and not on the bedside table like any other book.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at him. “Sure you did.”

“Well,” he says, eyes twinkling, “I always thought you’d end up an artist.”

Clarke flinches, and the grin slides off his face.

“Wasn’t in the cards for me,” she says unhappily. “Not useful enough.”

“Still,” he prods, “You like doing it, right?”

Clarke shrugs. “It’s not a career.”

“Why not?” Bellamy asks.

“I’m in med school, Bellamy.” She frowns at him. “Art is just a hobby.”

He pokes her leg. “But you don’t like med school.”

She kicks his hand away. “I never said that.”

He rolls his eyes, grabbing her ankle. “You kind of did.”

“What happens in the confessional, stays in the confessional, Father Blake.” Clarke sniffs primly. “It’s like Las Vegas, but more depressing.”

"It is not," he scoffs, sounding insulted. "It's uplifting. Cleanses the soul."

"Yeah, right," Clarke says doubtfully.

“Alright,” Bellamy says. “That’s it, we’re trying again.”

He hauls himself off the couch, drink in one hand, extending the other out for Clarke to take. She eyes it suspiciously.

“Trying what?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, grabbing her hand and pulling her up to standing. “Confession.”

Clarke balks, trying to tug her hand away but he holds firm. 

“Do I have to?” she pouts.

“Yes,” he says, grinning. “Come on, we’ll have fun.”

Clarke grumbles but acquiesces, letting him steer her into the main chapel. “I fucking doubt it.”

She’s right, of course.

Ten minutes later and she’s crying in the confessional again, the words coming out broken as she tries to articulate the ever present emptiness in her chest.

This isn’t what she wanted; she didn’t want to be vulnerable around him, not again. She wanted to have sex with him, not submit herself to the mortifying ordeal of being known. How she ended up here, sobbing in a confessional booth, knowingly telling Bellamy Blake just how fucked up she is… Clarke can’t understand it.

“Just tell me what to do,” she begs. “Bellamy, Father, just tell me what to do.”

He’s silent on the other side of the booth, and Clarke’s tears start to slow as she waits for his response. She looks up, trying to make out his expression behind the grate.

“Kneel.”

His voice is hot and low and Clarke frowns in confusion, wiping tears from her face with the back of her hand. 

“Sorry?” she asks.

“ _Kneel_ ,” he says again, more insistently, and Clarke shivers. She sets her glass down on the shelf to her left and drops to her knees, settling back on her heels. The floor of the booth is hard beneath her, and she tucks her hands under her legs and bows her head, waiting for further instructions.

And then he is there, standing in front of her, sliding back the curtain. She looks up at him, eyes wide, and takes in his expression. His gaze is dark, eyes nearly black with want, and Clarke feels her pulse spike.

Bellamy takes a half step towards her and Clarke feels her spine straighten, her palms coming to rest atop her thighs. He steps even closer, cupping her cheek with one hand, tilting her chin up. 

Her eyes fall shut, and she leans into his touch. His hands are so big, she thinks, nuzzling into his palm.

Clarke hears the click of his throat working, and his grip on her jaw tightens for a moment then releases. She holds her head in place as his fingers trace her features, running across her cheeks, down her nose, stopping for a moment on her birthmark before landing on the seam of her lips.

Her eyes flutter open, catching his. He presses down slightly on her lips, a question. Clarke acquiesces, taking the digit into her mouth, laving it with her tongue. 

She sucks, just a little, and Bellamy groans, the sound deep and rumbling. It goes straight to Clarke’s core, inciting a throbbing heat to bloom between her legs. She presses her thighs together.

He slides his finger from the wet heat of her mouth, letting it catch on her bottom lip. Bellamy looks down at her, eyes somehow even darker than before, and Clarke lurches forward from sitting. She comes up onto her knees, her face nearly even with his hips.

He’s hard in his pants, and her hands scramble for the buckle of his belt, undoing it without bothering to pull it from the loops before moving on to the button of his pants. She fumbles with it, accidentally giving his hands a chance to catch hers, stopping her. Clarke looks up.

Bellamy looks down at her, his face tight. “Clarke, I wasn’t—” he chokes. “You don’t have to—”

He stops as she deliberately pops his top button open, holding his gaze. “I want to.”

He swallows hard, throat bobbing deliciously. His hands stay on hers.

“Please, Bellamy,” she begs, tongue darting out to lick her lips. His grip on her fingers tightens. “Let me.”

His eyes clench shut, head tilting back, and his fingers fall away. She watches him intently, waiting for a sign. His jaw tenses and then his head jerks in a short nod. Clarke doesn’t hesitate.

Her fingers move quickly, unzipping his pants and tugging them down just enough to reach inside. Deftly, she slips his hard cock out of his pants and freezes.

It’s large.

She should’ve expected that he would be big. She _did_ expect it. She’d heard enough from his loud hookups to have some idea ( _It’s so much, I don’t think I can—_ she remembers a high voice keening through the wall. _Almost there_ , he’d groaned back, encouraging. _Just a little more. Such a good girl, I know you can take me._ ), but this…

Clarke has never seen a cock this big, let alone sucked one. And it’s been a while since her last interaction with _any_ penis, size notwithstanding. She may be in over her head.

Bellamy moans and Clarke realizes she’s been stroking him as she contemplates how to go about dealing with his size, perhaps a bit too tightly. She loosens her grip, sliding her hand up his shaft and letting her thumb brush over the tip, swiping away a bead of pre-cum that has collected.

Tentatively, Clarke leans forward, laving her tongue over the underside of his cock. She keeps her eyes on his face, watching his reactions. He’s breathing harshly through his mouth now, eyes screwed up tight, and his hand comes up to brace himself against the doorway of the booth. Clarke pops the head of his cock into her mouth, tongue teasing the tip as she uses her hand to stroke down the rest of him.

She can take more of him, she’s sure of it, and she slides him further into her mouth, lips pressed tight to his skin. Her jaw is stretched open, not wholly uncomfortably, but definitely wider than she’d expected. Clarke struggles to keep mouth soft around him. 

As she bobs down, her jaw slips, just a little, and her teeth graze the velvet underside of his length. Bellamy gasps, hips jerking forward involuntarily, and Clarke chokes as his cock hits the back of her throat.

He pulls his cock out of her mouth, one hand tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck.

“Sorry,” Bellamy says, panting. His eyes are worried as he searches her face. “I know it’s too much.”

Clarke tries to lean forward, to take him back into her mouth, but he holds her away by the hair. “Please,” Clarke whines, her hands coming up to grasp his hips. “Let me try.”

She feels the tension holding her back relax, and she tilts forward eagerly, lips closing around his shaft. She sucks, sliding her mouth up and down, her hand pumping the base of his cock. Bellamy sighs, hand tightening in her hair, but Clarke frowns internally. She can do better. 

She takes him further into her mouth, but it’s still not enough, not even close to all of him. He stands with one hand on the doorframe, the other tangled in her hair, and his hips are still, letting her control how far she takes him. It’s polite, but it’s not what Clarke wants. She wants him to lose control.

Clarke takes a deep breath and forces her mouth to relax, slowly sinking him even further, until the head of his cock is nudging at the back of her throat. She tries to swallow, to take more, but she gags around him.

His hips stutter, thrusting his cock down her throat momentarily. Tears spring to her eyes.

“Sorry,” he whispers, eyes clenched shut, and Clarke pulls off his cock, releasing it with a pop. She looks up at him, lips wet and red.

“Help me,” she begs, and his eyes open, looking down at her. “Help me take all of it.”

His eyes darken and his hand slips out of her hair to cup her chin. “Princess,” Bellamy growls, his tone a warning. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do,” Clarke says, her voice a desperate whine. She rubs her thighs together, trying to alleviate the ache between them. “I want you to fuck my face.”

His hot eyes dance across her face, sliding down to her heaving chest. He licks his lips intently. “Unbutton your shirt.”

Clarke scrambles to comply, fingers fumbling over the closures. When she’s finished she looks up at him, waiting for further instruction. Bellamy looks over the exposed flesh, lips pressed tightly together, jaw ticking. He gives a short nod and fists his hand into her hair again, wrapping around a handful around his fingers and tugging her head back.

“Are you sure?” Bellamy asks, voice hard, and she nods as best she can against his hand. He groans. “Fine. Open your mouth.”

She does, and he slides his cock smoothly back into her mouth, thrusting slowly. He’s not going in all the way, not like he said he would, and Clarke whines.

Bellamy huffs out a laugh. “You are such a little brat, Princess, you know that?”

And he pushes her further down onto his cock, till it brushes the back of her throat and she gags again. Bellamy hushes her, holding her there until it’s almost comfortable.

“Swallow,” he instructs, and as she complies he thrusts down her throat. “Good girl.”

He pulls her back off his cock and she gulps in air. “Think you can take more?”

Clarke nods eagerly. She’s not really sure, but damn if she isn’t going to try.

“Alright,” he says, and pushes back into her mouth. She swallows without him asking as he hits the back of her throat, and he keeps pressing deeper and deeper until her nose is pressed up against the thatch of curls above his cock. 

Clarke breathes through her nose, hands braced on his knees, trying to keep herself from struggling against the intrusion in her throat as he holds her there. 

He groans and looks down at her, the hand not in her hair coming down to stroke away the tears that have gathered in her eyes. 

“Shit, Clarke,” he chokes, “You took it all.”

She feels a surge of pride, and then he pulls her head back, letting her breathe for a moment before thrusting back into her mouth. His breath is coming in pants now, hips snapping quickly as he fucks her mouth in earnest.

Clarke stays pliant, letting him guide her head, letting him use her as he wants. Her cunt is absolutely drenched, and she slips a hand between her legs to press against her clit, just to take the edge off.

“So good for me, Princess,” Bellamy breathes. His thrusts start to come faster, his rhythm falling apart. “Taking my cock just right.”

She hums in agreement and he moans. His hips stutter, thrusting once, twice, and he presses her face down on his cock, spilling his release hot down her throat.

“Fuck,” he chokes, watching Clarke as she swallows. She preens a little under his gaze, feeling a bit like the snake in the garden of Eden. His spent cock falls from her mouth. “Fuck.”

And then he’s tugging her up to her feet, pulling the hand from between her legs, sucking her fingers into his mouth. Clarke whines and he chuckles darkly.

The next second she’s being pressed up against the door of the booth, his lips chasing hers, and they’re kissing frantically. His teeth nip at her bottom lip, one of his hands coming up to hold her chin. His fingers curl firmly around her throat. 

His lips slide down to her neck, sucking hard at the column of her throat, and Clarke moans, her head falling back against the wood. Bellamy hikes her hips up, pressing a strong thigh between hers as he mouths at her skin.

“Bellamy,” she whimpers, and his hand is between her legs, flipping up her skirt and slipping beneath her panties. His fingers glide through her slick folds, dipping into her for a second before coming up to press hard against her clit. She grinds down against him.

“So wet,” he murmurs against her neck. His lips come back to hers, and her fingers tangle in his dark curls, pressing him closer. He rubs her faster, the slick noises obscene in the quiet dark. She pulls her mouth back to catch her breath.

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut tight, biting her lip. Their foreheads press together and she loops her arms around his neck, holding herself up as she pants. Their faces are so close, their breath mixing hot between them.

Her cunt twitches against his hand and he practically growls, working her harder, faster, until Clarke can feel herself approaching the edge. The walls of her cunt begin to flutter.

“Oh,” she breathes, and comes with a shudder, her pussy clenching hard around nothing. “Oh, _God_.”

Suddenly, a loud crash echoes through the empty church and they rip apart from each other. It’s a painting of Jesus, a large one, and it’s fallen off the wall, the frame shattering as it hit the stone floor.

Clarke leans up against the confessional, panting through her aftershocks, while Bellamy takes a step back, eyes wide.

“Fuck,” he says, looking absolutely horrified. Clarke can feel her heart drop to her stomach. He turns away from her, tucking his cock back in his pants, and rips a hand through his hair, shoulders heaving. “Fuck!”

Shakily, Clarke rights her clothing, buttoning her shirt back up and tucking it into her skirt. She wipes her mouth with her wrist.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, her voice raspy from having his cock down her throat. She takes a step towards him, but he flinches back, eyes on the floor.

“Don’t,” he warns.

Clarke swallows hard, hands clenching into fists, nails biting into her palms. She tries again. “I didn’t mean—”

His eyes flash up to hers and she stops. Clarke feels a hole start to open in her chest, aching and yawning at her own stupidity. Why did she do this? She knew they had no future, knew he wouldn’t choose her, couldn’t choose her.

“I’m sorry,” she says lamely, voice soft. “Bellamy—”

“Father Blake,” he corrects.

“Right, sorry, Father Blake,” Clarke amends quietly, eyes dropping to her feet. 

He walks away from her, stopping at the end of the aisle. “This wasn’t your fault, not entirely, but it can’t happen. You should go.”

Clarke nods, feeling tears begin to build up behind her eyes. She starts towards the door.

“Clarke,” Bellamy calls to her, and she stops, turning towards him. She feels something like hope rise in her belly.

His gaze is soft.

“Please don’t come back.”

Clarke gulps, her mouth opening to say something, to apologize again, to argue, but he’s already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy: "I am DISGUSTED I am REVOLTED I dedicate my entire life to our lord and savior jesus christ and THIS is the thanks I get?!?!"
> 
> Hoo boy I am in need of a shower after writing that. Big time ashamed of myself.
> 
> (yolo)
> 
> Leave me some comments and kudos


	4. what regret tastes like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Seriously?” Raven exclaims, sitting up straighter. “Big Dick Bellamy Blake?”
> 
> “Can we—” Clarke shifts uncomfortably. “Don’t call him that.”
> 
> *****
> 
> no pron in this one but def porn in the next one I promise

Clarke spends the next week or so in a haze. She’s got no one to talk to, and nothing really to do, so every day blends together, each looking just the same as the one before. Each day she wakes up, goes to class, comes home, does her homework, drinks enough wine to kill a horse, and goes to sleep. Rinse and repeat, day after day after day. 

She tries to keep her mind off of what happened; but for fucks sake, it’s Clarke, and healthy coping skills are not exactly her strong suit, so she wallows. On the upside, she’s not thinking about Lexa anymore; at least not half as much, anyways. So that’s something. On the downside, she misses Bellamy like crazy, and feels so guilty it’s like her skin is always greasy; like she’s rolled in something dirty that she can’t quite rub off. 

During the day, she thinks shameful thoughts of how Bellamy’s face looked as he realized the mistake he’d made; of his request that she not come back. At night, she thinks shameful thoughts of his cock down her throat, choking her; of his teeth on her lips and his fingers on her clit. She thinks these thoughts in bed, her hand shoved down her panties; fucking herself until she comes with his name on her lips and tears in her eyes. Afterwards, Clarke peels herself out of bed, washes her hands and wipes the slick from her cunt, and steadfastly avoids looking in the mirror. Then she slides back between her sheets and sleeps, until her alarm goes off the next morning. Rinse and repeat.

She starts to get used to this new schedule, starts to forget what had come before it; so it’s a surprise when she comes home from class one day to find Raven sitting on her stoop.

“Hey,” Raven says quietly, and Clarke freezes at the bottom of the steps, holding her keys.

“Hey.” Her reply is tentative, testing the waters. She and Raven haven’t spoken in weeks, maybe months. Not since before Lexa dumped Clarke, at the very least. 

“So,” Raven mumbles, scuffing her foot against the step. She watches the action intently, her eyes not meeting Clarke’s. “It has come to my attention that I’ve sort of been a bitch to you.”

“You—” Clarke stutters. “What?”

“I would like to be friends again,” Raven grits out, clearly uncomfortable. Clarke’s eyes widen. “If you want, that is.”

“Yes,” Clarke agrees quickly. She’s not really sure what’s happening, but she’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Yes, please.”

Raven finally looks up at her, a small grin curling the corners of her lips. “Good.”

“Good,” Clarke replies, a bit breathless. “Did you wanna—” She gestures to her door.

Raven shrugs, standing up. “Sure.”

“Cool.” Clarke practically bounces up the stairs, her hands shaking as she unlocks the door. Raven follows her inside. 

“Jesus, Griffin,” Raven says, looking around the apartment. “What did you do to the place?”

Clarke bites her lip and shrugs. “Turns out most of the furniture was Lexa’s.” She dumps her bag on the floor by the door, where a coat rack formerly stood. “We broke up a couple weeks ago. She took it when she left.”

Raven drags her hand across the back of the couch, the only remaining piece of furniture in the room. Thankfully, the TV is Clarke’s, as Lexa didn’t approve of spending money on technology, so it’s still there, albeit on the floor instead of sitting on a table as it used to be.

“I’d heard about the breakup,” Raven says, wide eyes still taking in the barren room. “But—fuck, Clarke, this place is so depressing.”

And well— _yes_ , obviously, but Clarke doesn’t really want to hear it. She shrugs again. “Haven’t had a chance to get new stuff yet.”

It’s not strictly true, but whatever. She would’ve bought new things eventually, it’s just hard for one girl to try and carry furniture in alone. She’d had a notion to get Bellamy to help, back when they were still speaking but— well. And to be honest, Clarke can’t really afford anything that’s not super secondhand, given that she’s now saddled with the entirety of her rent. It’s not crazy, with the apartment being a one-bedroom, but it’s more than she’d budgeted for.

“Wine?” she offers weakly. Raven nods and Clarke goes to get it, pouring two glasses and handing one over. The two women settle onto opposite sides of the couch.

“No furniture, but you’ve still got wine glasses,” Raven marvels, taking a gulp. “Amazing.”

“Christmas present from Abby,” Clarke says, nose wrinkling. “They’re crystal.”

Raven laughs. “Of course they are.”

They chatter for a bit, talking about nothing, but they run out of easy topics fast. The two women settle into an uncomfortable silence, both fiddling with the stems of their glasses. 

“So,” Raven asks eventually. “How have you been?”

Clarke winces. “You know, hanging in there.”

“Yeah?” Raven looks at her. “What have you been doing with all this new-found free time of yours?”

Clarke waves her hand, gesturing to the couch and the wine. “This, mostly.” She meets Raven’s eyes and looks away. “Well, minus the company.”

“Fuck, Clarke, seriously?” Raven whistles lowly and leans back. “We need to get you out of here, ASAP. Find a bar or something, find someone to fuck, get Lexa out of your system.”

Clarke snorts, taking a big gulp of her wine. “Tried that. Didn’t end well.”

“Yeah?” Raven looks at her curiously. “What happened?”

Clarke makes a face, running her finger around the rim of the glass. 

“That bad?” Raven asks.

“Worse,” Clarke insists with a shrug. “Did you ever meet Bellamy Blake?”

Raven had gone to the same high school as Clarke, but she was a few years ahead of her. When Clarke was a senior, she’d accidentally hooked up with Raven’s boyfriend Finn, which had been an inauspicious start, but they’d ended up at the same college, and somehow become friends anyways.

Raven’s eyebrows furrow. “Bellamy Blake, like from Arkadia? Octavia’s older brother?” Clarke nods and Raven’s forehead pinches even more in confusion. “Curly brown hair, face like an angel, that Bellamy?”

“So you knew him?” Clarke asks, and Raven laughs. 

“Yeah, you could say that.” Raven smirks, taking a sip of her wine. “In the biblical sense, at least.” Clarke lets out a strangled laugh. Of fucking course. Of course Raven had fucked him. Why not? And her word choice, that’s just— for fucks sake. 

“That’s—fitting, I guess. Well, anyways, I ran into him just after Lexa left, and we hung out a couple times.”

“And did you—?” Raven makes a lewd gesture with her hands.

“No!” Clarke insists, then backtracks. “Well, yes, kind of. But just one time, and not like, _sex_ sex.” 

Raven gives her a questioning look, making a even lewder gesture involving her hands, tongue, and cheek. Clarke rolls her eyes and nods.

“Seriously?” Raven exclaims, sitting up straighter. “Big Dick Bellamy Blake?”

“Can we—” Clarke shifts uncomfortably. “Don’t call him that.”

“Fine, whatever, but it’s not like it’s not true.” Raven waves a hand dismissively and leans forward, her expression excited. “What happened?” 

Clarke bites her lip, looking down at her wine glass. “Wait,” Raven says, “Do you actually _like_ him?”

Clarke shrugs weakly. “I don’t know, Rae. I definitely don’t not like him.”

What a goddamn understatement that is, but Clarke didn’t exactly feel the need to bare her soul here, to Raven or to herself. It was fucking embarrassing, to fall for a guy after sucking his dick, even if there had been some semblance of feelings before.

Raven kicks her lightly. “So what’s wrong? Is it Lexa?”

“No,” Clarke laughs. “It’s God.”

Raven frowns. “I don’t follow.”

Clarke groans, leaning back on the couch and throwing her arm over her eyes. “It’s so fucked up, Rae. You can’t make fun of me, alright?”

“I won’t,” the other girl says. “But seriously, what happened?”

“I met him,” Clarke says, sitting back up, “In confessional.”

“Confessional?” Raven asks, confused. “Like—”

“Like Catholic church confessional. Yes.”

“Okay,” Raven says slowly. “I’m not even going to ask why you were there, because that’s— well, but I don’t get it, what’s wrong with meeting him at confessional? Is he, like, a Jesus freak or something?”

“Or something,” Clarke laughs, tears pricking at her eyes. “What’s wrong is that he was on the other side of the booth.”

“I don’t—” Raven starts, tone confused, then freezes. “Wait…” 

Clarke nods frantically. “Yes.”

“No,” Raven says, eyes bugging. She shakes her head hard. “No fucking way.”

Clarke lets out another manic giggle. “I’m serious.”

“You fucked a priest?!” Raven practically shouts. “Clarke, what?”

Clarke nods, her heart clenching hard in her chest. “Technically, I only sucked his dick.”

Raven stares back at her, mouth agape, taken aback. “Is that— _allowed_?”

“No,” Clarke says, frowning. The reaction is funny, and Clarke knows just how fucking ridiculous the situation is, but it still hurts to think about. “No, I don’t think so.”

Raven shakes her head in disbelief, taking a gulp of wine. “Well? Are you going to do it again?”

Clarke chews on her lip. “I guess not, given that after it happened he asked me to never come back.”

“What the fuck?” Raven scoffs. “Why?”

Clarke scratches at a smudge of something stuck to the side of her glass. “Do you believe in God?”

“Is that a serious question?” Raven asks, and Clarke shrugs. “I don’t know, probably not.”

“Well, Bellamy does,” Clarke says. “Obviously. And even putting aside the whole official priest sex ban, it kinda looked like God didn’t approve.”

“Okay, explain.”

Clarke shrugs again. “So after I— you know, he went to get me off.”

“How?” Raven interrupts, and Clarke glares at her. The other woman smiles back placidly.

“With his hands,” Clarke acquiesces, and continues. “And when I— you know, came, I may have taken the lord’s name in vain.”

Raven frowns. “Seriously, that’s it?”

Clarke shakes her head. “And then precisely at that moment a huge picture of Jesus fell off the wall.”

“I—what?” Raven asks, and Clarke nods. “Like, when you say precisely—”

“Literally the exact moment.”

“Huh.” Raven sits back, her mouth open, eyebrows pinched together. “Well that’s—”

“Fucking weird?” Clarke says. “Yeah. Anyways, I don’t explicitly know that he took it as a sign from God not to fuck me, but it definitely shook him out of it.”

“And you like him?” Raven asks. “Like romantically, actually like him?”

Clarke groans again. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Clarke,” Raven says apologetically, chewing on her cheek. “You know this is insane, right?”

Clarke glares at her. Of course she knew, how could she not? “Yes, thank you, I am aware.”

Raven nods. “Okay, great.” She stands up, and extends her hand out for Clarke to take. “Now get up, we’re going out.”

Clarke grumbles but lets the other woman pull her to her feet. “Why?”

“Because it’s a Friday, and I know you’re not doing anything else, and the best way to get over someone,” Raven says, steering Clarke towards her bedroom. “Is to get under someone else. Now go put on a cute outfit.”

Clarke balks, dragging her feet. She doesn't _want_ to fuck somebody else, she just wants to fuck Bellamy. She can't, and she knows that, but she still doesn't want to put in the effort to go to a club and get laid. “I tried that already, Raven.”

Raven pushes her harder. “Well, now you’ve got to get over the person you got under. C’mon, don’t be a baby.”

And Clarke’s not a baby, so she gives in. She puts on her clothes, puts on makeup, has another glass of wine.

She lets Raven take her out, lets her pick out a person for Clarke to fuck: a brown haired man with sharp features and a bit of scruff. He doesn’t look like Bellamy, not really, but he’s definitely Bellamy adjacent. 

Clarke grinds on him on the dance floor for a while until he gets the hint and kisses her. She lets the man, Cillian, take her home with him.

“I’m really good at sex,” he insists, in the uber, and Clarke nods encouragingly, half-heartedly palming him over his pants. He won’t be, she’s sure.

“I mean it,” he says later, as he kisses her neck; slipping her dress from her shoulders while they stand in front of his bed. “I’m really good at it.”

Clarke nods again, pressing her ass back against him. He won’t be.

But she lets him strip off her clothes and push her down to the bed and then they’re fucking, hard and rough and dirty, and god-fucking-damn it, _he is_. Clarke’s never been so insulted by good sex in her life. His cock is not as big as Bellamy’s, but he uses it well, and she comes a truly appalling number of times and leaves the next morning walking like she’s been hit by a truck.

She doesn’t feel any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so we're back and less dirty than last time but I promise there should be a much pornier update within a week. don't hold me to that because I fucking suck at deadlines but the next chapter will definitely be porny. and actually feature bellamy.


	5. jealousy, pt 1 of many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Right, of course.” Clarke answers without really thinking. She processes Harper’s words slower than she should, still looking around the party. “Wait—”
> 
> Her head whips around and she’s about to gracefully bow out, but they’ve already stopped; and Harper’s tapping on the shoulder of a tall man clad in tight jeans and a grey henley; and he’s turning, a glass of wine in his hand and a grin curling his lips and—
> 
> “Clarke,” Harper says, unaware of the absolute train wreck that is currently occurring. “I’d like you to meet Father Blake.”
> 
> ****  
> this is not the chapter I expected it to be, but so be it. avast ye, a lil porn lies ahead

She meets Raven the next day for brunch. 

“So?” Raven asks, waggling her eyebrows. “How was he?”

Clarke groans as she gingerly sits down, resting her head against the table.

“That good, huh?” Clarke flips her off, and Raven laughs.

“Why did I let you pick a man?” Clarke asks, lifting her head back up. She looks around for a waitress, hoping to get some coffee as soon as physically possible. “They’re the fucking worst.”

“Yes,” Raven says sagely. “But did you come?”

Clarke looks back towards her, making a face. She had, of course, come. Approximately nine times, and very begrudgingly. A man that cocky had no right to actually be good at sex. It was unjust. “Fuck you.”

She flags down a waitress and they both order. Clarke downs her coffee as soon as it comes, and immediately gets a refill.

“Well?” Raven asks. “Did you get his number?”

Clarke nods. She came _nine times_ ; even if she found Cillian repugnant, it would have been stupid not to. And she doesn’t find him repugnant; just boring, and a little gross. There are worse things for a man to be. _Like a priest,_ she thinks bitterly.

Brunch goes well. The two girls catch up on the things they missed in their weeks of not talking in a way they hadn’t the night before, and Clarke feels tenuously happy.

“I was pretty lonely,” she admits to Raven as they finish their meals, and it’s such a fucking understatement. “Nobody’s really talking to me at this point.”

Raven frowns. “Nobody?”

Clarke nods. She’s trying hard not to feel sorry for herself. “Kinda alienated myself with Lexa, and then she left. It’s my fault, really.”

Raven’s eyebrows pinch together, and she puts down her mug. “That’s— you know that’s not true, right?” Clarke shrugs limply. “Seriously, Clarke, it’s not. Nobody is mad at you.”

“You were,” Clarke says plainly, and Raven winces.

“Okay yes,” she admits, “But no one other than me. And Murphy, I guess, but he’s mad at everyone always, so he shouldn’t count.”

Clarke cracks a smile at that. “How’s he doing?”

“Oh, awful, as usual,” Raven says with a laugh, waving her hand dismissively. “You can tell because the world's still spinning and there’s no pigs in the air.”

“And Monty and Harper?” Clarke asks.

“Oh, shit.” Raven’s mouth drops open. “I forgot to tell you. That’s the whole reason I came to see you yesterday.”

Clarke’s brow wrinkles. “The whole reason?”

Raven waves the words away. “Okay, no, not the whole reason. I wanted to see you anyways, but it’s what forced me to suck it up and actually do it.”

Clarke waits for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “Well?” she prompts. “What is it?”

“They’re having a little party tonight, and we’re all invited. Said they’ve got ‘big news’ to tell us,” Raven says, a glint in her eye. “Murphy and I are pretty sure they got engaged.”

Clarke freezes, a grin inching across her face. “No shit?”

Raven shrugs. “Or Harper’s knocked up, but I think the first option is more likely.”

“Wow,” Clarke says. Her heart clenches, both with happiness and a little bit with jealousy. She can’t even imagine being at that place in her life. “That’s amazing.”

“So you’ll come?” Raven asks, and Clarke nods. “Great! Bring a date.”

Clarke groans. That was— no. She did not want to do that. “Raven, no. Who would I even bring?”

Raven raises her eyebrows suggestively. “What about the dude from last night?” Clarke winces and Raven frowns, pouting. “Okay, in the spirit of honesty, Murphy bet you wouldn’t be over Lexa yet.”

_That little weasel!_ Well, there’s no way she can let that stand. Clarke pulls out her phone and brings up Cillian’s contact. “Fuck it, fine.” Raven fist pumps and Clarke’s eyes narrow. “When you say bet—?”

Raven shrugs, waving her off. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll give you half of it.”

Clarke rolls her eyes.

****

Monty and Harper meet her at the door. It’s the first time she’s been over in months, and she’s deeply uncomfortable. She’d let Cillian drive her, because he’d offered, and the ride over had been filled with stilted conversation, at least on her end.

Cillian seemed happy as a clam; and kept looking at her tits, pushed up by the halter neck of the dress she was wearing. At least she knows she looks good.

“Hey,” Clarke says, smiling weakly, and she’s swept up immediately into Harper’s arms. 

“Clarke, I’m so glad you could make it!” Clarke’s eyes bug out, surprised at the affection, but she hugs back. Harper pulls back and looks at her. “You look tired.”

Clarke frowns. “And you look—” She glances down at Harper’s hand and catches an eyeful of shiny rock. “Engaged! Congratulations!”

Monty pulls Harper in by the waist, grinning proudly. “We were going to make an announcement, but it doesn’t seem like anyone’s surprised.” He looks behind Clarke, eyes widening. “And who’s this?”

Clarke puts on a smile, trying not to wince, and lets Cillian put his hand on her back. “Monty, Harper; this is Cillian. Cillian, meet Monty and Harper.”

He smiles winsomely and extends his hand. “Hello.”

Harper shakes it and Monty claps him on the back, greeting him happily. “Good to meet you, dude! Why don’t we go get the ladies some drinks?”

Cillian looks at Clarke for help as Monty steers him into the kitchen, but Clarke just smiles back. As soon as he’s gone, Clarke turns to Harper and grimaces. “Thank God.”

“So you two aren’t in love?” Harper smirks. “I assume Raven told you what Murphy said.”

Clarke shrugs. “Am I that predictable?”

Harper hooks Clarke’s elbow with her own, pulling her into the living room and out the doors to the backyard. “Just a bit. Now come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Clarke lets her tug her along, looking around at the people milling about. She tries to find Raven or Murphy in the crowd. “I know I wasn’t enthusiastic about Cillian, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking for a replacement.”

Harper laughs delicately. “Oh, I know. That’s not what I meant. I was just hoping you’d be in the wedding party, and in that case it would be good if you met our priest. He’ll want to meet with you guys to get info for the ceremony.”

“Right, of course.” Clarke answers without really thinking. She processes Harper’s words slower than she should, still looking around the party. “Wait—”

Her head whips around and she’s about to gracefully bow out but they’ve already stopped; and Harper’s tapping on the shoulder of a tall man clad in tight jeans and a grey henley; and he’s turning, a glass of wine in his hand and a grin curling his lips and— 

“Clarke,” Harper says, unaware of the absolute train wreck that is currently occurring. “I’d like you to meet Father Blake.”

Clarke freezes, mouth dropping open. Bellamy looks back at her, his eyes tight. His smile falters but he keeps it on his face.

“Clarke,” he acknowledges, nodding at her.

“Bel—Father,” she stutters back. She longs for a glass of wine, for something, _anything_ , to do with her hands.

Harper looks between the two of them, confused. “I’m sorry, do you know each other?”

“Clarke was friends with my little sister when they were young,” Bellamy says gracefully, and Clarke nods. It's technically true, although it avoids certain pertinent details. Like that his cock had been in her mouth less than two weeks ago. Raven is going to have a fucking field day when she shows up. “I hadn’t realized you two were friends.”

“Oh yes,” Harper says, seemingly oblivious to the tension between the two. “Clarke and Monty and I have been friends for years.”

Clarke tries to smile but it comes out as more of a wince. “Right—”

“So this is where you got off to. Here you go, babe.” A warm arm slides around her waist and Clarke flinches. She takes the proffered wine glass as Harper excuses herself to go greet a new guest. “Hi, and you are?”

Cillian smiles, extending a hand towards Bellamy. Bellamy looks at it with hard eyes, his lips pulling into a tight line. “Father Blake.”

He waits a beat longer before taking Cillian’s hand and shaking it. “So, a priest,” Cillian says lazily. His hand on Clarke’s waist starts to slip lower than is appropriate. “That’s cool. I thought you all had to wear the outfits.”

“No,” Bellamy replies, his tone curt.

Clarke stomach flips, and she gulps her wine, hoping she doesn’t look visibly nauseous. Bellamy’s eyes flick to Clarke and she shifts uncomfortably.

“This is Cillian,” she offers eventually. Her phone buzzes with a call and she jumps, pulling it out. Thank God for small favors. “Sorry, one sec!”

It’s Raven. Clarke frowns as she steps away and answers. “What’s up?”

“Oh, Clarke! So I’m actually not going to make it tonight,” Raven says, sounding a bit morose.

Clarke closes her eyes, letting out a deep breath. “Why not?”

“Emergency at work, it sucks. Are they engaged?”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, her voice grumpy. “They are.”

“What’s wrong?” Raven asks, confused. “Is Murphy giving you shit?”

“No, I haven’t seen him yet,” Clarke groans. “I brought Cillian, as you suggested, but guess who Harper just introduced me to?”

“Who?”

Clarke lets out a strangled noise, closing her eyes. “Her priest, Father fucking Blake.”

“Oh shit,” Raven says, and laughs. “Sorry, it’s not funny.”

Clarke looks over at the two men. They’re still standing where she left them, and Bellamy’s eyes are looking dangerously sharp. “Fuck, I have to go.”

“Good luck!” 

Clarke sighs. “Thanks.”

She hangs up and slides the phone back into her pocket, walking back over to Cillian. He's talking, a grin on his face, seemingly unaware of the deadly look Bellamy is giving him. Clarke downs her wine on the way so she has an excuse to separate them.

“Isn’t she hot?” Cillian asks Bellamy as he tucks Clarke back under his arm, nuzzling her hair. Clarke smiles uncomfortably.

“Sorry,” Clarke says. “That was my friend Raven, just letting me know she wasn’t going to make it.”

“Oh,” Cillian replies, sounding unconcerned. “Sucks.”

Clarke remembers something then, and turns her eyes back to Bellamy. She raises one eyebrow, keeping her face neutral. “Raven Reyes. I think you knew her, back in the day, Father.”

He tears his gaze away from glaring at Cillian to look at her, confused, and then something in his eyes changes as he remembers. "Yeah, maybe." He winces. “A long time ago.”

Clarke looks back, unflinching. “Hmmm.” She looks up at Cillian and smiles. “I’m out of wine, why don’t we go back inside for a second?”

He grins back at her in a way that makes her feel greasy. “Sure.”

She manages to avoid Bellamy for the next portion of the night, and keeps Cillian from pawing at her excessively in front of her friends. Murphy is, in fact, shocked when he sees them; and grimaces dramatically. Clarke wonders exactly how much he owes Raven.

At a certain point in the night, she disentangles herself from Cillian, and goes inside to find a bathroom. She’s a little tipsy, and she looks at herself in the mirror as she washes her hands.

She looks okay, she thinks. Almost like she could be having a good time. 

“30 minutes,” Clarke says quietly, pointing at her reflection. “And then you can go home.”

She opens the door to find Bellamy waiting, arms crossed in front of him.

“Father,” she says, nodding placidly, and tries to leave. He stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Clarke, wait,” he says quietly, and she turns. “Can we talk?”

She looks at him, confused. Is he— is he going to yell at her, here? She knows she shouldn’t have— knows she overstepped; but she’s here, with a date, at her friends party. She's leaving him alone. What could he possibly want from her? “What?”

His eyes are soft, and a little desperate. “Please.”

Clarke bites her lip, considering. Why the fuck not? Maybe he’s changed his mind, maybe he wants— “Fine.”

Bellamy drops his hand as she nods towards a door behind him. He follows her into the laundry room across the hall, waiting as she shuts the door behind them. Clarke turns to face him and he sighs, looking down.

“I’m really sorry—” Clarke scoffs and tries to walk away, but he stops her again; hand closing around her elbow. “Seriously Clarke, I am.”

“Sorry about what?”

He frowns. “I shouldn’t have— I took advantage and it wasn’t right.”

She crosses her hands over her chest. “So you regret it.”

He nods, his eyes big and sad, and Clarke flinches internally. So he’s not mad at her, or conflicted. He just feels guilty. Her chest feels empty, and cold. “Fine, understood, you’re forgiven,” she says, keeping her tone even, “I’ll just go back to my date then.”

Clarke watches as his jaw clenches, and his grip on her arm tightens. And isn't that interesting. She can almost forget, with him dressed like this, that he’s a whole-ass fucking priest; and not just Big Brother Bellamy Blake, her childhood crush. Not just Big Dick Bellamy Blake, whose cock she took down her throat.

“How well do you know that guy, anyways?” Bellamy grits out.

“Not well,” Clarke says with a shrug. She watches Bellamy curiously. With the priest thing in play, she could read his disapproval as a moral issue, but as the other Bellamy? Take away the collar, and he just seems… jealous. “I met him in a club last night.”

She sees him swallow as he reads her meaning. Bellamy’s frown deepens. “I don’t like him.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “He’s not your boyfriend; you don’t have to like him.”

“Oh, so he’s your boyfriend now?” Bellamy’s eyes darken and he steps closer, crowding her up against the wall. 

She glares at him. Cillian is certainly not her boyfriend, and never will be, but that is beside the point. “What do you care? Just because you don’t want me—”

“I never said that.” His pupils are huge, and Clarke’s heart is beating like a drum. She tilts her head as he leans in, nosing at the skin of her neck. “Fuck, Princess, you’re so—”

And bad idea be damned, she can’t help it any longer. Clarke fists her hands in his hair, dragging his lips up to meet hers.

He groans into her mouth, kissing her back filthily, all teeth and tongue. He’s taller than her, and his shoulders are hunched over her as they kiss. He lets out a frustrated snarl and lifts her up; hands hot on her ass, hiking her thighs up onto his hips.

Bellamy turns them, depositing her on top of the washer, and steps in between her legs. He’s hard in his jeans, and Clarke moans as he grinds his erection into her clothed pussy.

His hands skate up her thighs, pushing up the skirt of her dress.

“Did you let him fuck you?” Bellamy whispers lowly against her lips. He pulls back slightly and Clarke opens her eyes, meeting his dark stare.

She stares back at him defiantly, and nods. One of his fingers slips beneath the edge of her panties. 

“Was it good?” he asks, and she nods again, biting her lip as his fingers slide deeper into her panties. Clarke tilts her pelvis and spreads her legs to give him more room. She’s wet, and she knows it, and she watches his eyes narrow as his fingers find the mess between her thighs.

“Did he make you come?” His fingers tap her clit lightly and keep going; two of them sinking into her pussy. Clarke lets out a gasp, clenching down. She’s still sore, almost, from last night; but the burn feels good, feels right.

“Yes,” Clarke replies, voice breathy. Her hips jerk forward, desperate for more contact. He keeps his hand still, just cupping her cunt. “Bellamy, please.”

“Are you gonna keep him?” Bellamy asks, his voice hard, serious. Clarke closes her eyes and shakes her head no. No, she isn’t. She wouldn’t. He lets out a deep breath, like he’d been holding it. “Good girl.”

And then his fingers slip out of her and he’s sliding her panties down her legs, pushing her thighs apart. He kneels on the floor in front of her and hooks his arms under her thighs, grabbing her ass and dragging her forward to the very edge of the washer. 

Clarke’s head falls back as his fingers slide back inside her pussy, pumping slowly into her. “Was it like this?” he asks, letting his thumb brush against her clit. His mouth is so close to her cunt, she can feel his breath hot against her slick flesh. “Nice and slow and gentle?”

The metal of the washing machine is cold beneath her and the temperature difference between it and her skin is delicious. Clarke shakes her head. “No.”

“No,” he repeats, and lets out a low laugh. His mouth trails against her inner thigh, mouthing at the white skin. “I didn’t think so.”

Her hands tangle in his hair as he licks down the length of her slit, tasting her. “So fucking wet for me, Princess.” His free hand strokes the soft blonde curls that sit at the top of her mound, trimmed neatly into a small triangle. “So pretty.” 

He sucks her clit into his mouth, thrusting three fingers roughly into her hole; and Clarke moans. He pulls back and nips at her thigh. “Got to stay quiet for me, okay?”

She nods frantically, one hand slipping out of his curls and covering her mouth. She presses it against her lips, biting down on a finger as his mouth goes back to her clit.

He fucks her hard with his hand and his mouth, working her up quickly towards the edge. Clarke can feel the tension build up, heat curling low in her belly, and she trembles. “I’m gonna—” she whispers, eyes clenched shut, and he sucks harder, pumping his fingers faster. Clarke’s back arches. “Oh, fuck.”

Her cunt clenches hard around his fingers as she comes, shuddering rhythmically in time with the waves of her orgasm. He pulls back to watch but his fingers fuck her through it; pumping lazily into her until she puts a hand on his wrist to stop it, cunt oversensitive. Her eyes open slowly and she catches a feline smile on his lips before he wipes his mouth on his arm. And—fuck.

Clarke pulls him up from his knees and kisses him, tasting herself on his lips. Her hands reach for his cock, feeling the strain of his erection through his jeans. He stops her as her fingers move to unbuckle his belt. 

“Please,” she begs against his lips, but he holds her wrists firmly. He tilts his head and drags his mouth away from her lips, his forehead still resting against hers. Bellamy pants into the space between them, his eyes shut tight.

His lips pull together and he steps back, dropping her wrists. He turns and puts his palms against the counter behind him; resting his weight on them, head dipped forward. Clarke’s mouth falls open as she watches him; her legs still spread, skirt hiked up over her waist. _Oh, no_ , she thinks.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice gruff. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Clarke watches as his spine straightens. He moves to the sink beside him and washes his hands, rubbing his forearm where he’d wiped her slick off his mouth. Once he rinses his face, Bellamy reaches for the roll of paper towels, pulling off a few and folding them neatly into a square. He wets it under the faucet, and turns back to Clarke, holding it out towards her.

She takes it wordlessly. Bellamy leans back against the counter in front of her, not meeting her eyes. Clarke hisses as she wipes her cunt and her thighs with the cool paper towels. He doesn’t watch.

She slides down off the washing machine and rearranges herself, fixing her clothing. He hands her a fresh square of paper towel, and she looks up confused. 

“For the washer,” he says, tone flat. Clarke nods, and cleans off the surface of the machine before tossing the dirty rags into the trash. Her cunt is still bare beneath her skirt, and she looks around on the floor for her panties.

“Have you—” she starts, and frowns. “Do you know where my underwear went?”

He sucks in a sharp breath and Clarke looks up, confused. She watches as he slides them out of his pants pocket and hands them to her. “Sorry,” Bellamy says, ears pink. He still won’t look at her. “I forgot.”

Clarke swallows, trying not to think about what would’ve happened if she hadn’t asked. Trying not to think about him, getting undressed, finding her damp panties in his pocket. Trying not to think about him, lying in bed, holding her panties as he fucks into his fist, calling out her name when he—

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he repeats quietly.

She slides the underwear up her hips and bites her tongue. His cock is still half-hard, pressing at the seam of his crotch, so forgive her if she doesn’t fully believe he’s repentant. “You said that already.”

Clarke watches his throat move, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and she starts to get annoyed.

“Why won’t you just fuck me?” Clarke asks petulantly.

Bellamy shakes his head. “I—I can’t.”

She takes a step towards him, determined to at least try, but he steps back to avoid her. “Okay,” she says, face falling. “Fine. Goodbye.”

She turns to leave, opening the door. 

“Clarke—” Bellamy starts; and she knows that tone, knows this song and dance by heart this time.

“I know,” she says. She looks back at him, eyes hard. “Don’t come back to the church. Don’t come see you.”

Bellamy smiles weakly at her. “I mean it with the highest of compliments.”

Clarke stares at him for a moment, silent, and leaves. She finds Cillian in the kitchen, looking for her. 

“Where’d you get off to?” He asks, sliding both hands around her waist and pressing his hips into her ass as she pours herself a glass of wine. 

She makes eye contact with Bellamy as he comes out of the hallway leading out from the laundry room. He flinches as his eyes flicker to Cillian, pressed up behind her. “Nowhere important.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I said within the week I meant uh in one day I guess. Here ya go. There might be even more within a week because I am fervid about this rn but no promises. 
> 
> hope it was porny enough
> 
> this chapters jealousy dedicated to who_needs_reality
> 
> OH! also I finally watched the first five episodes of this season and.......... why are octavia's eyebrows so exquisitely groomed after years on sky ring? i'm aware this is not the most important thing by far but like...... girl they are perfect! I was so distracted.
> 
> lemme know your thoughts (and prayers)


	6. murphy's law (and he's not even in the chapter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ouch,” Bellamy says behind her.
> 
> Clarke quickly rights herself, absolutely horrified. Causing a scene was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid; and now she’d dripping with alcohol, her nose is bleeding, there’s glass all over the floor, and Bellamy is clutching his eye where the back of her head connected with his cheek bone.
> 
> She looks from him, to Monty and Harper, who are both on their feet as well. Clarke’s eyes are wide with shock and embarrassment. “I’m so sorry.”
> 
> *****  
> just so much chapter, but also so much porn to make up for it

In the following weeks, Clarke tries very hard not to think about Bellamy, nor of his cock or his fingers in her cunt. To nobody’s surprise, it doesn’t work. 

Instead she finds herself googling things like “ _definition of celibacy in the catholic church_ ” and “ _vow of chastity_ ” and “ _can I get sued for fucking a priest_ ” at random times during the day; unprompted by conscious decisions, as if the thought has simply leapt from her mind into her phone’s search engine.

It’s not a great sign.

She doesn’t see him again for nearly a month, not until Harper and Monty have another meet-up. This one is in a restaurant, and it’s smaller: just the happy couple, their parents, their best man and maid of honor, and their priest.

Clarke has been given the dubious title of maid of honor. She’s fairly certain she was not Harper’s first choice, and she’s 100% certain she’s not the best choice; but Harper looked so sweet when she’d asked, and Clarke could never have said no.

The best man is Monty’s best friend from college, Jasper. This is another reason why Clarke is fairly certain she was not the first choice for maid of honor; Jasper _hates_ her. 

They were friends for most of college until a scandal revealed to the college’s research ethics board led to the expulsion of Jasper’s girlfriend, Maya; something he blamed Clarke for, although Maya herself was much more forgiving. It was, in a way, Clarke’s fault for reporting it; although her intention had only been to bring attention to the wrongdoing of Maya’s mentor, Dr. Tsing; not to punish the undergrads working with her.

Needless to say, Clarke is not extremely excited about the dinner.

Still, she puts on her most apologetic-looking dress and does her make-up and goes without argument. She isn’t aware at the time what she’s getting herself into; Harper has neglected to tell her Bellamy is coming, probably because Harper has not been made aware of the situation between him and Clarke. 

She isn’t sure, but Clarke feels like it’s probably a bad idea to tell a devout person that you’d sucked their priest off. Harper is a pretty nice person, but Clarke doesn’t really know how religion works, and doesn’t want the situation to be misinterpreted. She also really doesn't want to get Bellamy in trouble, or to make waves with the wedding.

She’s trying her very best to be good. Clarke really doesn't miss those months of being alone, and she really doesn't want to upset whatever balance has allowed her back into her friends circle.

Clarke walks to the restaurant from the train, cursing herself for wearing heels, and shows up five minutes early to make sure everything goes smoothly. She greets everyone with a smile, even Jasper, who glares at her in return.

“We’re still waiting on one,” Harper says, checking her watch, “But let’s go in and get the table. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

They leave the seat next to Clarke open, with Jasper on her other side. 

“Who are we waiting for?” Clarke asks politely, distracting Monty from his chat with Harper’s father. 

“Oh, just the priest,” he replies, returning to the conversation. Clarke’s stomach sours, and she feels her spine go stiff.

“What’s wrong?” Jasper drawls, downing the cocktail the waitress had just delivered. He has been drinking heavily since they sat down, Clarke has noticed. It might be a problem later. “Afraid he’ll make you confess your sins?”

Clarke almost laughs at that. In fact, she does; letting out a manic giggle. Jasper looks at her like she’s lost it. “Too late for that.”

She feels more than sees him come into the restaurant. Her back is to the door, but she can feel the sudden presence of an important body behind her; with what sense she’s not sure, but it’s definitely him.

Clarke takes a gulp of her wine, keeping her eyes forward at he slides into the seat next to her. 

“Welcome!” Harper exclaims, introducing him around the table. 

It appears Clarke is the only one he’s met so far, and when Harper gets to her, Bellamy nods in her direction. “Clarke.”

“Father,” she replies coolly, tilting her glass towards him before bringing it back to her lips. Like a toast almost.

Clarke does her best to stay silent during dinner; smiling at the right times and nodding, asking polite questions but not volunteering any information of her own. It’s going okay, with the exception of the snide comments Jasper keeps directing at her under his breath, and her visceral discomfort at the man sitting at her other elbow.

Bellamy is being charming as always, and weirdly churchy towards Monty and Harper’s parents; which Clarke supposes makes sense given that he is literally a priest. It makes more sense actually, seeing Bellamy talk with their parents, that Monty and Harper chose to have a religious service. Clarke hadn’t really taken her friends for church people, but its clear from this interaction that their parents very much are.

She frowns as she sees Jasper knock back another drink. Was that his fifth? Sixth? They haven’t even been there for an hour yet. 

“How many drinks have you had?” she asks him quietly, making sure not to draw the attention of the rest of their table.

“None of your goddamn business, Clarke,” he spits, equally quiet. Harper catches Clarke’s eye from across the table with a questioning look, and Clarke gives her a tight smile.

“Okay,” she says, out of the side of her mouth. “Just take it easy.”

“ _Just take it easy_ ,” Jasper mimes under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Their waitress comes to collect his empty glass and asks if he’d like a refill. Clarke jumps over him as he opens his mouth. 

“We’re fine for now, thanks.” She smiles at the waitress, who smiles back, and walks away. Jasper glares at Clarke.

“Fuck you,” he says lowly. Clarke is immensely grateful nobody is paying attention to them. “Fine.” 

He reaches for Clarke’s half full glass of white wine but she quickly puts her hand over the base of it, stem between two fingers, and holds it down. Jasper tugs on it.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Jasper says, “C’mon.” Clarke refuses to let go of the glass. 

“No, knock it off; you’ve had enough,” she says through a smile. Monty looks over at the two of them and frowns; and Clarke’s stomach lurches guiltily. She doesn’t want to make a scene.

She lets go of the glass but it's just as Jasper tugs agains, and he’s surprised by the sudden lack of resistance. The glass tilts precipitously as it moves too fast, and the wine whips out in an arc, splashing Clarke across her entire front.

She leaps up instinctively as the cold liquid hits her skin, mouth agape, napkin dropping out of her lap. The whole table goes silent and turns to look at her, drenched in wine. Clarke flushes. “Sorry, I just—” She makes eye contact with Jasper, whose eyes narrow. Monty looks between the two of them, mouth pinched, and Clarke decides it’s not worth it. “My hand slipped.”

“Are you alright, dear?” Monty’s mom asks. Her nose wrinkles. “Perhaps you’ve had a bit too much to drink.”

“No, I—“ Clarke starts, then stops again, cheeks burning. No one is going to believe her anyways. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll just go clean up.” 

She turns quickly to go to the bathroom but slams directly into a face height tray of drinks being carried by their waitress. They tumble forward, sloshing more liquid over her, and her hands instinctively go to cover her nose as she stumbles back. Her heel catches on her fallen napkin and her feet fly out from under her. Strong arms come up quickly under her arms to catch her but she can’t stop the momentum of her head, and it snaps backwards into something hard.

“Ouch,” Bellamy says behind her. 

Clarke quickly rights herself, absolutely horrified. Causing a scene was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid; and now she’d dripping with alcohol, her nose is bleeding, there’s glass all over the floor, and Bellamy is clutching his eye where the back of her head connected with his cheek bone.

She looks from him, to Monty and Harper, who are both on their feet as well. Clarke’s eyes are wide with shock and embarrassment. “I’m so sorry.”

She practically runs for the bathroom.

It’s single occupancy, for which Clarke is inordinately grateful. She locks the door behind her and lets her back rest against it; her hands cupping her face, eyes clenched shut. She allows herself three sobs, her eyes filling with tears, and then she straightens up, and heads for the sink.

She looks… like shit. Her eyeliner is dripping down her face from the spilled drinks and tears, and her nose is bloody. Her dress, which had been a nice dove grey, is soaked, and the color does nothing to hide it. The hair around her face is wet and sticky, and her head aches where it collided with Bellamy’s face.

She tries for a moment to clean off her dress, pressing paper towels against the wet spots to blot off the liquid, but it’s useless. She dries it as best she can, swallowing back the sobs that threaten to escape her chest. 

Collecting herself, Clarke grabs a paper towel and wets it. She starts with her face, gently wiping the eyeliner off her cheeks before moving on to the blood below her nose. The bleeding hasn’t quite stopped; and Clarke grabs a fresh paper towel, holding it under her nose as she tilts her head forward and pinches.

Clarke closes her eyes, breathing deeply. It was an accident, she thinks. Harper and Monty can’t be too mad, can they?

But then again their parents are here, and Bellamy; and Clarke practically admitted to being too drunk, even if it was just to cover for Jasper. She’s ruined the night, even if it was an accident, and clearly it was an important dinner. They probably hate her. 

Clarke can just picture it: she’ll go out to get her bag and Jasper will be talking to Monty, and Monty will glare at her, and Harper will pull her aside and tell her, you know what, maybe Raven _should_ be maid of honor, and in fact, maybe Clarke shouldn’t come to the wedding at all.

And Raven will be mad at her for ruining the dinner and forcing her to take over, and Murphy will be mad at her because he’s _always_ mad and this is as good an excuse as any, and Bellamy will be mad at her because Clarke couldn’t keep it together for a single night, and she’ll be all alone again, just like before.

Just like she deserves to be.

A knock breaks through her reverie and she startles, her head whipping towards the door. 

“Occupied!” Clarke calls loudly, her voice shaky.

The person outside clears their throat. “Clarke, it’s me. Are you okay?”

It’s Bellamy’s voice, and Clarke’s shoulders sag. “Yeah, sorry,” she says weakly. “I’m just—”

Oh, fuck. Why did it have to be Bellamy? She feels tears start to build up behind her eyes and her throat grows thick.

“I just need a minute,” she finishes quietly.

“Can I—” His voice is very close to the door, like he’s pressed up against it. “Can I come in?”

Can he? It’s probably not a good idea, but Clarke feels like shit. If he’s going to yell at her, it may as well be now.

She unlocks the door and steps back in front of the sink. Bellamy slips in, locking the door behind him and leaning up against it. She doesn’t look at him.

“Fuck, Clarke,” he breathes. “What happened out there?”

“Had too much to drink, I guess.” Clarke shrugs limply, giving the story she’d let Monty’s mom put in her mouth. “Sorry about your eye.”

“Fuck my eye,” Bellamy says, waving off her concern. “And fuck that explanation. You only had one glass of wine.”

Bellamy comes up next to her, grasping her elbow and gently turning her towards him. Clarke lets her hand fall away from her nose as he cups her chin, tilting her head to inspect the damage.

He’s wearing his priest suit tonight, and she keeps her eyes fixed on the starched collar.

“Doesn’t look broken,” he says, and she almost laughs, looking up.

“I know it isn’t. I’m in med school, remember?” Bellamy smiles at her, his eyes crinkling. It’s such a soft look, Clarke feels her heart stutter.

“Sorry, Dr. Princess.” He steps back and looks her over. “Are you ready to go back out?”

Clarke shakes her head. “I’m still covered in booze, I have to wipe it off.”

Bellamy looks at her, his expression inscrutable. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She can feel her ears get hot. “I can do it myself.”

He shakes his head and pulls off his jacket, laying it out on the counter next to the sink. “Nonsense,” Bellamy says, and pats the jacket. “Hop up.”

Clarke rolls her eyes but follows his instructions. He puts out a stack of paper towels and wets them in the sink, squeezing out the extra water. 

“This is silly,” Clarke says as he runs the damp square down her arms one at a time. He grins as he turns her wrist, wiping off her forearm.

“I’m helping,” Bellamy says, moving towards her face. She lets him wipe over her forehead and under her eyes again, even though she’s already done it. He’s especially gentle around her nose, and brushes lightly over each lip. It’s a good thing Clarke hadn’t worn lipstick.

He swipes the rag softly down her neck and across her collarbones before she thinks to stop him. Her dress is low cut, and the only thing left to clean is her chest.

“Bellamy,” she protests as his path starts to trail down her sternum. He looks up at her, and his eyes are dark.

“I’m helping,” he says again, and Clarke swallows hard. 

She uses one hand to hold up the front of her dress and the other to slip the straps off her shoulders.

“Okay,” Clarke says, nodding at him to continue. Bellamy does, moving his hand slower than necessary, making sure not to miss a single spot. As he slides the rag over the arch of her breast, she feels his thumb trail behind, running over her bare skin. It slips briefly beneath the fabric of her dress.

She watches his throat move, his lips a tight line across his face. Clarke wants to reach up and smooth the tension in his jaw, but she worries what will happens if she breaks him out of the trance he is in.

As Bellamy finishes, he leans in, his mouth pressing against the skin of her chest. His tongue darts out to taste her skin and he pulls back, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Just making sure I got it all.”

Clarke nods, dumbstruck.

He helps her down off the counter and holds out his jacket for her to put on. She slips her arms into the sleeves and pulls it shut over her stained dress. 

“Ready to go back out?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke balks. 

“I can’t,” she says, taking a step back. “I look ridiculous, and I ruined the whole night.”

He frowns. “Clarke—”

But she’s shaking her head. “No, I can’t, I need to go home.”

Bellamy sighs and nods. “Okay, I get it, let’s just go get your stuff.”

She lets him lead her back to the table, one hand gently pressed against the small of her back, steering her. 

Clarke flinches as she meets Harper’s eyes, and looks down, collecting her phone and her purse. 

“Are you alright, Clarke?” Harper asks. She sounds concerned, not angry, but she probably thinks Clarke is just wasted. She’ll probably call later to yell at her, or Monty will do it.

Clarke gives her a tight smile. “Yeah, sorry. I’m fine.”

Bellamy clears his throat next to her, and Clarke looks over, confused. Why hasn’t he sat down yet?

“I’m going to drive Clarke home,” he announces, which is news to her. “I’m worried she might have a head injury.” 

The table makes sympathetic noises, and Clarke tries for a smile. It twists into a grimace. 

“Oh, shit,” Monty says. “Do you need us to do anything? I can call Raven, or we can come over later.” 

“I’m fine,” Clarke insists, and she is. Her head is really only bruised. Probably. “I just should get some sleep.”

She says goodbye and lets Bellamy lead her out to his car. He unlocks it.

“You don’t have to drive me,” Clarke says, clutching his jacket across her chest. “I can take the train.”

Bellamy gives her an unamused look, and opens the passenger side door. “I’m taking you home, Clarke. Just get in.”

The ride is mostly silent, except for Clarke’s directions to her apartment. He parks out front, and follows her up the stoop.

“I’m not concussed, you know,” she says as they walk up the steps.

He huffs. “I know.”

“Do you want to come in?” Clarke asks, unlocking the door. She looks at his rapidly bruising eye. “I can get you some ice for that.”

Bellamy nods. She opens the door for him, letting him walk past her. He stops just past the entryway and turns to look at her, expression incredulous.

“How long have you lived here?”

Clarke shrugs, slipping off his jacket and pressing it to his chest. He catches it with one hand as she walks past him into the kitchen. “Almost two years.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, sounding affronted. “You don’t have any furniture.”

Clarke winces, pulling an ice pack out of the freezer. She wraps it in a dish cloth and hands it to him, moving to curl into a corner of the couch. He sits down across from her. 

“I have a couch,” Clarke says. “And a TV. And in the other room, I have a bed.” Bellamy looks at her, eyes full of concern.

“Well, a mattress,” she amends. “But that’s the most important part of a bed.”

“That’s not—” He shakes his head, frowning. “Why don’t you have any furniture?”

“It was my ex-girlfriend’s.”

Bellamy looks at her doubtfully. “All of it?”

Clarke huffs. “I don’t know, maybe? She left the couch so it must be mine, and I know I paid for the mattress.”

The other things they’d accumulated together mostly, Clarke thinks, going to thrift stores and dragging things in from the street. It’s possible some of it technically should have belonged to Clarke, but she hadn’t fought Lexa on anything she’d taken when she moved out. In fact, she hadn’t said anything at all; just watched silently as Lexa and Costia pulled apart the rooms Clarke had put together. 

Costia had left a tin of cookies, which was nice of her. Lexa had left her keys, and a disapproving look.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, and his voice is soft.

She’s crying, Clarke realizes. Oh, fuck. She didn’t want to be doing that that at all. 

“I’m having a bad day,” she explains. “It’s really not a big deal.”

He pulls her into his arms and she lets him, sobbing against his chest.

“This night fucking sucks,” she cries, and Bellamy just nods, rubbing circles on her back. “I didn’t even want to be a bridesmaid.”

“You don’t have to do it,” he soothes, which is a nice thing to say but _so_ not true. 

Clarke smacks his chest weakly. “Of course I do, are you kidding?” She sniffs, rubbing her eyes. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore; Harper is totally gonna take it back.”

Bellamy frowns, smoothing his hand over her hair. “Why would she do that?”

Clarke gives him a look like he’s stupid. “Because I ruined everything.”

“You didn’t, Clarke,” he says, his voice reassuring. “It’s one dinner, it will be fine.”

She turns to smack him again and he catches her wrists in his fingers, pinning them behind her back. Slowly Clarke realizes their position. 

He’s got his back against the armrest of the couch, legs outstretched down its length. She was seated sideways in his lap, and with that turn she’d swung one leg over his hips to face him completely. 

Clarke's straddling him now; her tits pressed up against his chest, skirt tangled up around her hips. His arms are flush around her, holding her arms back and pressing her in tighter against him.

They gaze at each other for a minute. Clarke doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe.

“Clarke,” he says, a warning. 

She looks at him for a moment more, considering; and grinds down, pressing her pelvis against his lap. She can feel his cock harden beneath her.

“Father,” she replies.

Bellamy groans, eyes closing. “Fuck you, calling me Father like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it.”

She shifts her hips against him once more and grins as his back stiffens.

“What?” Clarke asks innocently. She tucks her face into his neck, breath ghosting against the smooth skin of his throat where it peeks out above the starched collar. 

“Princess,” he warns again, his grip tightening on her wrists.

She smiles, lips brushing his throat. “Fuck you, calling me Princess like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it.”

Bellamy practically growls, flipping them in one smooth motion. Their lips crash together and it’s brutal; bruising kisses and biting teeth. Her hands fly to his neck, sliding along the edges of his clerical collar until she finds a button at the back. She pops it open, tugging the strip of cloth out from under his lapels, and tosses the collar to the floor.

He pulls back, eyes narrowed, and Clarke blinks up at him with wide eyes, her fingers sliding down to undo the first button of his shirt. She undoes the next one as he watches, and the next, until his shirt is completely unbuttoned. 

Bellamy’s eyes are hot; and he looks at her, silent, as she helps him shrug the shirt off. Clarke swallows hard, taking in the sight of his tan abdomen. He’s surprisingly well-muscled for a man of his age (and profession). Unfairly so, actually. It’s cruel.

She wants to taste him.

Her fingers glide along the planes of his chest, slipping down over his abs to rest on his belt. Bellamy swallows, but doesn’t say anything.

His own hands move to her waist, rucking up her dress further. Clarke lifts her hips to help him, and lets him drag the wine-stained cloth over her head, dropping it to the floor beside them. Her dress hadn’t allowed for a bra, so she’s just in her panties now, lying beneath him.

Bellamy’s throat bobs as his eyes move over her exposed skin. Clarke shivers under his gaze.

His head dips down, mouth coming to rest on the top of her breast. His tongue laves along the skin he had tasted before, the wet heat of it causing Clarke to jerk and shudder. She gasps, her hands sliding into his curls, holding his head to her chest.

“Been thinking about these tits all night,” he rumbles. “Since that first night, even. Just a peek and I couldn’t get them out of my head.”

Clarke flushes in pleasure. She’s glad that he’s stuck on this too, just like she is, even if he’s fighting it. She wants him to think about her constantly. She wants him to think about her tits when he’s giving mass, wants him to think about her lips around his cock as he listens to parishioners confess their sins. She wants him to dream about fucking her, just like she dreams of taking his cock.

His lips close around one nipple, sucking lightly at the bud as it hardens. His hand comes up to palm her other breast roughly, kneading the tender flesh. Clarke moans, her hips bucking against him. She wants more.

Bellamy pulls back, his other hand moving to press her hips firmly into the couch, stilling her movements. He looks down at her, his eyes dark. “Uh-uh, Princess. Be good for me.”

Clarke whimpers, body twisting against his resistance; desperate for some friction, for something, _anything_. He holds firm, sitting back on his heels. “Please,” she whines, “Please touch me.”

Bellamy’s hot eyes glitter with something. “Where?”

“Anywhere,” Clarke begs. “Everywhere.”

His hand strokes down her belly, trailing along the smooth skin below her navel. Long fingers toy with the lace edge of her panties. 

“Here?” Bellamy asks.

Her arms bend at the elbows, hands closing around his biceps. “Please.”

He pets down the outside of her panties, tracing a finger down the line of her folds. Stroking up and back down the length of her pussy, he lets her wetness soak through the thin fabric. 

“Is this all for me?” Bellamy taunts, fingers pressing lightly into her hole against the resistance of her panties.

She keens, attempting to press back. “Who else?”

He laughs darkly, mouth coming down to taste the skin of her throat. His fingers slips into her panties, rubbing slow circles over her clit. 

“Do you want me to make you come?” Bellamy asks. Clarke nods frantically against his shoulder, eyes clenched tight. Her hands scrabble to link behind his neck, but he pulls back again.

“You’ll have to be good for me,” he says, tone imperious. His fingers continue their motions, torturously slow. “Do what I tell you.”

She’d do anything at this point, as long as he keeps touching her. “I will.”

He presses down hard over her clit, and her body jerks. “You can’t touch me.”

Clarke squeaks indignantly, her eyes flying open. “But—”

Bellamy’s fingers pull away from her and she whines. 

“Don’t you want to come?” Bellamy asks teasingly. 

Her arms tighten for a second where they're looped around his neck. She doesn’t want to let go. She wants to touch him; wants to feel the hard lines of his muscles, the velvet softness of his cock. Bellamy raises one eyebrow, fingers stroking the sensitive skin where her panties meet the curve of her hips.

Clarke shudders, and she lets her arms fall to her sides. She bites her lip, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “I’ll be good.”

A smirk curls at his lips. “Good girl.”

His hands grip her hips, tugging her roughly down towards him so her pelvis is tilted up, tailbone resting between his knees. He slides her panties down her hips and grips one ankle; pressing her knee back towards her chest, so he can slip her panties off that leg.

Bellamy’s fingers stroke through her folds, collecting the moisture that has built up, and return to her clit. 

He bends over her, taking her nipple back into his mouth. His tongue laves over the tight bud, teasing; before his teeth close down, nipping lightly at the sensitive flesh. 

Bellamy hikes her hips up further onto his thighs and thrusts his fingers into her cunt; two first, then three, fucking into her roughly. Clarke’s back arches and she moans, pleasure coursing through her like a fire.

His lips move from her breast to her neck, sucking hard at the column of her throat. He nips at the soft skin.

“Please,” she whimpers, as his fingers pump into her harder, faster. “Please.” In this position, she can almost imagine he’s fucking her for real; that it’s the head of his cock pulling at the walls of her pussy and not his thick fingers. 

Her eyes close as she thinks about it: the feel of him stretching her wide, splitting her open. He’d be fucking her hard, punishingly; his hips snapping against hers, jarring her bones as he made her take all of him.

Instead, he fucks her hole open with his fingers, grinding down hard against her clit with the heel of his hand. His fingers curl inside her, stroking the spongy wall of her cunt, and Clarke nearly shouts, hips bucking up towards him as she feels herself approach orgasm.

He laughs darkly, his movements slowing to a torturous lull. His hand rests against her lightly, just cupping her cunt instead of fucking into it. 

“What do you want, Princess?” Bellamy asks, pressing against her clit.

Clarke wants him to ruin her. She wants him to fuck her so hard she’d feel it for days after. She wants him to come inside her so deep she’d never be able to get him out.

“Please,” she gasps, trying to grind down on his fingers. “Please make me come.”

A satisfied smirk curls across his face and he pushes back into Clarke’s pussy, fucking her harshly on his hand. A moan flies out of her lips as he works her back up fast and hard and deep, bringing her right to the edge and pushing her over.

Her cunt clenches around his fingers and she comes; her mouth open, head thrown back. Her eyes squeeze shut as the waves of her orgasm rip through her body, causing her to shudder and shake under him.

His fingers slide out of her to grasp her hip, slipping across her skin and painting her with her own slick. Bellamy holds her hips down against the hard line of his thighs until the last aftershocks finish.

Clarke opens her eyes slowly, mouth still open in an O, sucking down heady gulps of air. He watches her reverently with dark eyes.

Slowly, Bellamy moves forward, sliding her down off his thighs and leaning over her, one hand braced above her shoulder. Clarke watches as he palms his hard cock over the crotch of his slacks.

He looms over her for a minute, waiting; then unbuckles his belt and undoes his pants, pushing down his boxers. Clarke swallows hard as his cock springs free of its confines, just as long and as thick as the last time she’d seen it. 

She moves to reach for it, to feel the weight of his cock in her hands again, but she’s too slow. Bellamy’s hands catch her wrists, pulling her hands up by her shoulders.

“Ah, ah, ah, Princess. No touching.” The length of his body stretches out over her and she pants, eyes flicking over his face. He transfers control of her wrists to one hand, pinning them to the arm of the couch above her head.

His other hand moves down to roughly stroke his cock. His eyes are hungry on her, sliding from her face, to her heaving chest, to the sheen of her come on her skin where he wiped his fingers on the curve of her hip.

His jaw is tight as he jerks himself hard and fast. Clarke longs to touch him, longs to wrap her fingers around his cock, longs to press him back against the couch and take him into her mouth, longs to feel him come down her throat again; but he keeps her trapped beneath him, so instead she watches.

He works himself up quickly, cheeks pink. His breath comes faster and Clarke sees his abs tighten, jaw clenching as he hisses through his teeth. 

Bellamy releases his cock for just a moment, sliding his fingers through her folds to collect some of her juices before gripping himself again. The sound of him fucking his fist is wet now, obscene, and Clarke imagines what it would sound like if he fucked her for real.

She watches as he strokes his cock harder, faster; until he’s panting tightly, his hips jerking erratically. His fingers clench down around her wrists, pressing the bones together, and she knows he’s close.

Bellamy’s shoulders tense, a shudder rippling through his abdomen; and he hits his peak with a groan, spilling white ropes of cum over the skin of her belly. He holds himself over her for a minute, eyes clenched tight as he catches his breath.

Clarke watches as he grits his teeth and rolls back, collapsing against the couch at her feet. His eyebrows are furrowed together, lips pressed into a hard line.

“Let me guess,” Clarke says, voice flat. She can feel his cum still cooling on her skin. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

He swallows hard. “Clarke…”

She rolls her eyes.

Bellamy looks at her, expression tortured, and she blinks back. Slowly, deliberately, she drags a finger through the mess on her stomach. He watches as she brings it to her mouth, closing her lips around it.

She sucks lightly, tasting his cum. The finger drops from her mouth, and his gaze flicks from her lips back to her eyes. 

“Three times is a pattern, you know,” she says lazily. “Why did you even come inside with me?”

“You were hurt,” Bellamy says. Clarke raises one eyebrow at him doubtfully and he twitches. “I overestimated my control.”

“And in the bathroom earlier?” Clarke asks, pulling herself up against the arm of the couch. All thoughts of earlier in the night, of the disastrous dinner, have left her head; leaving only the memory of his hot eyes on her in the bathroom, of his hips between her thighs and his mouth on her breast.

Everything else is irrelevant for now. Everything but him, here, now.

His throat bobs and he looks away. “I was helping.”

Clarke almost grins. “This was helping too.”

Bellamy’s jaw tightens. He lets out a deep breath and starts to right his clothing, tucking his cock back into his pants and zipping them up. “Clarke, this—”

“Can’t happen again,” she finishes for him. “So you’ve said. And yet here we are.” She’s feeling strangely calm, her mind quieter than it has been in months. 

He blinks slowly, lips pressed together, and grabs his shirt from the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy says, buttoning his shirt.

Clarkes leans on one elbow. “I’m not.” She props her chin up on her hand, tilting her head at him. “Why won’t you fuck me?”

His fingers stutter on the last button. 

“I told you, I can’t,” Bellamy says slowly, and his eyes flick to her, hesitating on the cum still staining her belly. “Do you—” he stutters, swallowing, “Do you want a towel, or something?”

Clarke shrugs noncommittally, eyes still intent on him. “If this keeps happening, if you keep losing control,” she says, gesturing to herself, naked and covered in his spend. “Why won’t you just fuck me? Is this really any better?”

His teeth clench down, jaw ticking. Silently, Bellamy gets up, moving towards her kitchen. Clarke listens as the sink turn on and off again, and he comes back with a damp dish cloth.

“You don’t have any paper towels,” he says, holding it out to her stoically. “I hope this is fine.”

“Bellamy,” she prods, her voice soft, and he looks away. 

“I just can’t, okay?” Bellamy says quietly. He shakes the dish cloth at her again.

Clarke takes it. She feels his eyes on her as she wipes the traces of him slowly and meticulously off her skin.

Something twists bitterly inside her. Tonight confirms that Bellamy wants her, confirms that he’ll get her off, that he’ll touch her, no matter what he says about _can’t_. But the fact that he won’t fuck her… it means that this is all she’ll ever get. 

Clarke doesn’t just want him to fuck her; she wants him, all of him. She wants him to love her, to want to be with her; but he can’t, _he can’t_ , and she knows it. 

So maybe this is enough. Maybe it’s enough to have this little bit of him; when he loses control, whatever that means.

“I should go,” Bellamys says. He shifts uncomfortably in front of her when she doesn’t look up. “Clarke—”

“I won’t come to the church,” she promises, wiping the last of his cum from her stomach. Clarke moves to sit up on the couch, legs curled under her; and looks up, eyes wide and innocent. “I’ll be good for you.”

His eyes flash to hers, heat flaring, but Clarke just blinks back. His eyes narrow. “Good.”

Bellamy moves to leaves, striding purposefully towards the door. He pauses at the door, one hand on the knob. She looks over her shoulder at him. 

“Goodnight, Clarke,” he says, his voice a low rumble. 

“Goodnight, Father,” she replies sweetly.

Clarke watches as Bellamy swallows hard, throat ticking. A small smile dances at the corner of her lips. He nods once, tersely, and leaves. Her door clicks shut behind him.

She lays back against the arm of the couch and listens to the sound of his car starting, to the hum of the engine as it fades away. Her eyes fall to the floor, looking for her panties. 

Laying carelessly beside her wine stained dress sits a small strip of immaculate white fabric. Clarke grins, selfish satisfaction curling warm in her belly.

His collar, forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarke j chilling with cum all over her tummy for like... a while: "what seems to be the problem, Father?"
> 
> (also unprompted overshare: one time in college I fucked this dude and he came on my stomach and after he rolled to one side and reached over the side of the bed to grab something from his bag and I rolled to the other side to get something to clean up with and when we came back up we were both holding rolls of toilet paper we'd independently stolen from the dorm bathrooms. i think it was kinda sweet of him actually which tells you just how low my standards are)
> 
> anyways this chapter is A LOT longer than it was supposed to be but I can't really bring myself to care.
> 
> also its filthy which I hope is a positive
> 
> hope u liked it ;) lemme know with a comment or a kudo if ya want


	7. i've got a [bar bathroom] and a bad idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She sends up a quick thanks to— not God, because that would be highly inappropriate, but to—she doesn’t know, Raven, maybe; because this bar is perfect for what she intends to do.
> 
> It’s much nicer than their usual, more expensive, and Clarke normally wouldn’t have agreed to come. But by virtue of that, it has single occupancy bathrooms, and they’re clean. Clean enough that, hypothetically, someone could kneel on the floor without their knees getting dirty. You know, if they felt so obliged.
> 
> (And Clarke feels so obliged, she really does.)
> 
> ****
> 
> hey! it's more porn and very little plot, who'd've thought

Clarke’s not really sure what she expected after that night. More, she guesses. 

Bellamy doesn’t show back up, doesn’t call her, doesn’t beg her to let him fuck her. Harper and Monty’s wedding draws closer, and she doesn’t see him, not at all.

She’s still maid-of-honor, somehow. Neither Harper nor Monty seemed mad at all about the dinner fiasco, just worried. Monty privately thanked her for taking the fall for Jasper and actually even apologized on his behalf, which was certainly unexpected.

The wedding is pretty soon, actually. It’s going to be a very short engagement in the scheme of things. Raven and Murphy have a bet going on whether Harper is pregnant after all. Clarke secretly thinks she probably is, but it’s none of her business. 

Bellamy’s clerical collar sits on her kitchen counter, mocking her. She feels like she should return it, but he’s explicitly told her not to come to the church, and she’s explicitly told him she wouldn’t. Told him she’d be _good_.

Clarke sees him again maybe a week before the wedding. Raven forces her to go out again, to a nice, more adult-vibe bar this time. She tries to take them to another club, but Clarke puts her foot down, not looking for a repeat of the Cillian debacle. He’s still calling her, hoping to go out again. Clarke should probably tell him she’s not interested, but part of her wants to keep him on the back-burner, in case she needs a date (or a fuck) in an emergency. To the wedding, maybe.

She does not want to show up to that alone for a variety of reasons, one of which being the delicious jealousy she remembers filling Bellamy’s face at the party. She wouldn’t mind seeing that again.

But then again, she’d promised him she’d be good. God, sometimes Clarke hates herself.

Raven convinces Clarke to let her pick her outfit in exchange for agreeing to the lower-key venue. Clarke regrets it a little bit, wishing she’d maintained some sort of veto power when Raven manages to dig out a cropped tube top she’d bought some time in early college. She pairs the (racy, slutty, immature) top with a high waisted black skirt that Clarke’s not certain actually belongs to her and some low-heeled boots. The finished product is admittedly a pretty hot look; but, God, at what cost?

The bar is pretty full when they arrive, but not packed. They head to the bar first, and Raven orders a pitcher of some mixed drink for the two of them to share while Clarke waits. The bartender gives Clarke an interested glance, looking her up and down, and Clarke fights the urge to roll her eyes.

_Not tonight, buddy_ , she thinks, and Clarke and Raven head for a booth in the back of the bar, settling in with their drinks. Raven starts to complain about a new guy she’s met at work, an engineer. Clarke listens intently, getting the feeling that the man is a bit hotter than Raven is letting on.

They’re both more than a few rounds in by the time Bellamy shows up.

“Oh shit,” Raven says, her eyes widening as she sees something over Clarke’s shoulder at the door. “Don’t look.”

Clarke, of course, immediately looks. Bellamy’s in the doorway with an older black man, talking animatedly. He’s in his street clothes, and looks for all intents and purposes like any other dude at the bar, but his companion is in a black priest suit and collar. 

Clarke swears and sinks further into the booth, trying to hide behind the seat. “Did he see me?”

Raven watches Bellamy intently. “Doesn’t seem like it. They’re going over to the bar.” She glances over at Clarke appreciatively. “Damn, he’s gotten even hotter.”

Clarke groans. “I know.”

She peeks out of the booth. Bellamy and the other priest have sat down at the bar, their backs to Clarke and Raven. Clarke sits back up, taking a big gulp of her drink. “Should we leave?”

Raven’s eyes narrow. “Do you want to leave?”

Clarke shrugs. She should probably, but she hasn’t seen him for so long. It feels good to just know he’s here, even if he isn’t actually _here_. “Not really.”

“Great,” Raven says, and tops off both their drinks from the pitcher. “Now, in your medical opinion, how much does Murphy owe me? Harper’s definitely knocked up, right?”

Clarke laughs, and they fall back into easy conversation. Clarke is pretty tipsy at this point, and she all but forgets about the man at the bar, at least until the pitcher runs dry.

“It is technically your turn to get the refill,” Raven teases. “But if you’re too chicken—”

Clarke rolls her eyes, grabbing the empty pitcher and pulling herself out of the booth. “If I have to know he’s here, I think he should have to know the same.”

Raven laughs and gives her a salute. “Go make me proud.”

Clarke heads to the bar. She’s definitely a little drunk, feeling bubbly and loose on her feet. And bold, definitely bold. Her eyes zero in on an empty space on the bar, right behind Bellamy’s back, and she grins.

She approaches him from the back, sliding in behind him and flagging down the bartender. Bellamy is talking to the same man he came in with, about something churchy that goes right over Clarke’s head. He’s got more than a couple empty glasses in front of him.

The bartender who’d checked Clarke out earlier comes over to meet her, giving her a flirtatious smile that she immediately returns. 

“What will it be, beautiful?” he asks, a glint in his eye. Clarke slides the empty pitcher over, her eyes on the bartender but her attention focused almost entirely on the curly-haired man seated next to her. 

She pitches her voice high and breathy, but makes sure it’s unmistakably her own. “Another one of these, please and thank you.”

Clarke watches triumphantly as Bellamy stiffens beside her. Out of the corner of her eye she sees his body shift, watches him glance over at her, confirm it’s really her. A smile curls on her lips, and she leans over the bar, batting her eyelashes at the bartender as he refills the pitcher. 

“Here you go, sweetheart,” he says, sliding her the full pitcher with a wink. He’s not ugly, Clarke thinks, and in another world, maybe the flirting would be real. In this one, however, she thanks him politely, trades her cash for the pitcher, and turns, one hand holding the pitcher aloft. With the other, she drags her fingers purposefully along the breadth of Bellamy’s back, and walks back the opposite way she came, so he can watch her.

Raven is distracted, chatting with one of the guys at the table next to them about car engines or something equally mysterious to Clarke. Clarke tops off both their drinks anyways, sliding back into the booth.

She makes eye contact with him from across the room, and his gaze is hot and dark. Slowly and deliberately, she takes a sip of her drink, her eyes never parting from his.

The man he’s with holds up a phone, gesturing that he needs to answer, and Bellamy blinks away for a second, nodding. Clarke waits as the man leaves to take the call outside the bar. Bellamy looks back at her once the man clears the bar, and a catlike smile curls across Clarke’s lips.

She jerks her head towards the bathroom, and Bellamy’s eyes narrow. Clarke downs her drink, gives him a shrug and a wink, and slips out of the booth again. Raven glances over as Clarke starts to walk away, a sly grin spreading across her face as she notices the hungry eyes of the man across the room.

“Going somewhere?”

“I’ll be back in a few,” Clarke says. Raven waggles her eyebrows suggestively and Clarke smirks in subtle confirmation. “Keep an eye out for me?”

“You got it.”

Clarke makes her way to the bathroom, swinging her hips maybe a little more than entirely necessary. She sends up a quick thanks to— not God, because that would be highly inappropriate, but to—she doesn’t know, Raven, maybe; because this bar is perfect for what she intends to do. 

It’s much nicer than their usual, more expensive, and Clarke normally wouldn’t have agreed to come. But by virtue of that, it has single occupancy bathrooms, and they’re clean. Clean enough that, hypothetically, someone could kneel on the floor without their knees getting dirty. You know, if they felt so obliged.

(And Clarke feels so obliged, she really does.)

Bellamy slips in after her, locking the door behind him. Clarke faces the mirror, a grin curling at her lips.

“So, Princess,” he growls, “Wanna tell me what the fuck that was out there?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Father.”

He crowds her, pressing his chest up again her back. Clarke leans back into him, her head tilting up to expose her neck. Bellamy noses at the skin there, his breath hot against her throat.

“That poor fucker behind the bar really thought you’d let him touch you. But you wouldn’t, would you?”

“I might,” she breathes, her back arching as his hot fingers slide around her waist. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

His other hand trails up her front, coming to grip her chin, holding her in place. He clicks his tongue in disappointment. “I didn’t think you were a liar, Clarke.”

She jerks in protest but his hands hold her steady, keeping her still as his teeth graze the soft skin behind her ear. Clarke shudders. “I’m not.”

“But you are.” Bellamy sighs sadly. His fingers on her chin slide back, his palm pressing against her throat. “You told me you would be good for me.”

“I was,” she insists, heart racing under her skin. “I am.”

He hums doubtfully. “In this little outfit? Flirting with the bartender? That doesn’t sound like a good girl to me.”

Clarke’s almost gasping now; this close to begging as Bellamy’s fingers hook under the edge of her top, pulling it down until her tits are exposed, nipples pebbling in the cool air. He cups them, testing their weight, and swipes the pad of his thumb over the hard bud of her nipple. His eyes are on hers in the mirror, searing hot.

“No, I don’t think you can be good after all.” Clarke squeaks as he pinches her nipple.

“Please,” she groans, shuddering as he continues his ministrations. “I can.”

Bellamy smiles. His hands drop from her body as he takes a half step the side and turns, leaning up against the counter beside her. “Prove it.”  Clarke’s eyes flutter open. She turns to face him, and he looks at her curiously, his eyes dark, arms crossed over his chest. Bellamy raises one eyebrow expectantly. “Well?”

Clarke swallows hard, taking a step back to stand directly in front of him. “Can I—” Her hands extend out towards him, a question. “Can I touch you?”

Bellamy’s eyes gleam, and Clarke imagines he’s proud of her for remembering his rule from last time. He nods.

Clarke drops to her knees immediately, her hands fumbling for the front of his pants. She half expects him to stop her but he just watches, letting her undo his belt and unzip his pants. His cock is half hard already, and she licks her lips as it springs free.

“You gonna swallow my cock, Princess?” Bellamy asks softly, his hand finding the skin of her cheek. “You think you remember how to take it?”  Clarke gazes up at him, eyes reverent, and nods. Bellamy’s lips curl slightly, pleased. His thumb slides over her mouth, catching on her bottom lip and dragging it down. He taps lightly on her chin. “Open.”

Clarke complies, letting her mouth fall into an oval. He guides the head of his cock into her mouth, not thrusting, just letting it sit on her tongue. She closes her lips around the wide shaft, and his hand curls around the back of her head, fisting in her hair.

He starts to press her head forward, sliding her mouth down along his cock. Clarke’s hands come up involuntarily to hold his hips as he grazes the back of her throat, and Bellamy’s grip slackens, pulling back slightly.

“Hands on your thighs,” he instructs, stroking her face as she looks up at him, mouth still full of cock. “Be good for me.”

Clarke’s hands drop and she feels a burst of pride at his satisfied smile. God, she wants everything from this man. It’s sort of weird how much his control thing turns her on; Clarke has always liked her partners to dominate her a little, but she’s never had anyone be so verbal about it, never been given actual instructions.

It’s also sort of funny that this is what he’s like sexually, when he’s supposed to have given all this up. The person who radiates the most effortless sexual dominance Clarke has ever experienced, and he’s made a vow to not have sex _at all_. It’s insane, and she’s happy to be the straw that’s breaking the camel’s back, so to speak.

Bellamy slides his cock into her mouth again, stopping when he hits the back of her throat and pulling out again. He thrusts back in deeper, and Clarke remembers to swallow around him, keeping herself from choking on his length.

He directs her with his hand in her hair, pushing her down on his cock and back again at a slow pace, going deeper each time until her nose is pressed against his pubic bone. She can feel his cock in her throat as he holds her there with a low groan.

“That’s it.” His voice is deep and rasping, head tilted back and eyes closed tight. Clarke rubs her thighs together, feeling desperate for some pressure on her clit. She has a notion to slide her hand into her panties, but he’d told her to keep them on her thighs, and she wants to be _good_.

Her cunt clenches at the thought. 

“Fuck.” Bellamy pulls her off his cock for a second, letting her catch her breath, and then thrusts back in. Gone is the slow pace from before; he’s moving faster now, and Clarke lets him, taking his cock as well as she can.

“Such a good girl,” Bellamy murmurs, hips pumping hard. Clarke struggles to keep from gagging as his length slides heavy across the back of her tongue again and again. “Letting me fuck your throat.”

Clarke hums in agreement and he moans as the sound vibrates around his cock, hips stuttering. His fingers curl into the wispy hair at her nape, less holding her so much as stroking the soft skin at the base of her skull.

His thrusts come erratically, breath gasping as he takes his pleasure from her mouth. “Gonna come,” Bellamy breathes. His hand is hot and gentle against the back of her neck, in direct conflict with the punishing strokes he uses to pump his cock down her throat. “Swallow it for me.”

Clarke can’t speak with his cock in her mouth, can’t nod with his hand tangled in her hair, so she hums again, her eyes wide and blue on his. Bellamy groans, pressing her head down all the way to the base of his cock till she’s choking on it. His other hand rucks through his own messy hair, holding tightly as his head tilts towards the ceiling. With a few last, short thrusts, he comes; spilling his seed hot down her throat.

Like a good girl, she swallows it all.

Clarke pulls off his cock with a wet pop, looking up at him from her knees. Bellamy’s hand slides from her nape to cup her cheek, and he gazes down at her, his eyes dark and reverent.

He opens his mouth to say something— but a hard knock raps on the door, echoing through the room. 

They both startle, heads whipping towards the bathroom door. 

“Clarke?”

It’s Raven’s voice. Clarke lets out a breath of relief. She turns to look back at Bellamy, still frozen stiff. 

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she calls.

“Uh, okay, but—” she hears Raven swear behind the door. “Look, that guy that was here with Bellamy? He’s looking for him. I sent him in the other direction, but he’s going to be back in a few minutes.

“Okay, just— give me a sec.” Bellamy stares at her with wide, horrified eyes. Clarke smoothes down her skirt and stands, adjusting her top so her tits are covered. Her cunt is still wet and aching in her panties, but it looks like their time is more than up.

“You have to go,” she tells him, and he nods mutely, tucking his cock back into his pants. He zips and buttons them, turning his body towards the mirror.

Bellamy closes his eyes and leans forward over the counter for a second. Clarke reaches out to fix his hair where he's mussed it.

“Fuck!” Bellamy slams his hands against the counter and Clarke flinches back. Without another word, he strides towards the door and throws it open, stepping into the hallway.

Raven is leaning against the wall by the entrance to the hallway, her arms crossed against her chest.

“Reyes,” he acknowledges, standing stock-still in the middle of the hall.

Raven raises an accusing eyebrow at Bellamy, who doesn’t meet her eyes. “Blake.”

He opens his mouth as if to speak and closes it again, shaking his head and pushing past her. Clarke follows him out into the hall, letting the bathroom door swing shut behind her. She comes to stand next to Raven, both of them watching as Bellamy’s back disappears into the crowd near the bar. 

“So,” Raven says, glancing over at Clarke’s disheveled appearance. “Did you fuck him?”

Clarke shakes her head, eyes still fixed on Bellamy. “I blew him.”

Raven lets out a low whistle. “My condolences to your throat.”

Clarke shrugs, distracted. She sees Bellamy find the man he’d been sitting with earlier, and the two of them head back towards the bar together.

“Hey,” Raven says, placing a gentle hand on Clarke’s arm. The blonde turns her head, meeting the other girl’s worried gaze. “Do I need to kill him?”

Clarke hums. “Not sure yet.”

****

She gets a text message the next morning from Harper as she’s laying in bed hungover.

_Bad news,_ it says. _The priest has to go home to take care of his sick mom, which I totally understand, but also it’s mildly disastrous for us. He’s sending a list of possible alternates, would you have time this week to check some of them out with me?_

And isn’t that a fucking story? Clarke probably does not have time, but that’s beside the point. Bellamy’s mom died _years_ ago, when Clarke was still in high school. There’s no way he’s going home to see her, in fact there’s probably no home for him to go to at all.

He’s running.

_Oh no,_ Clarke responds. _Let me see what I can do._

She takes a long look at the collar, still sitting on her counter, and calls Raven. “Hey, I need you to do me a favor.”

When Raven gets there, the collar is tucked nicely into a brown paper lunch bag, along with a note. Clarke hands it over, and gives her the address of the church.

“So I guess I’m killing him,” Raven says, peering into the bag with a snort. 

Clarke sighs. “Not until after the wedding.”

The other girl pulls out the note, reading it with a frown. “Clarke, are you sure about this? Harper and Monty—”

“Can’t get married without a priest,” Clarke says, her voice hard. Raven looks at her doubtfully and she nods. “I’m sure.”

“I don’t like this.”

Clarke shakes her head. “It’s my mistake, and I’m fixing it. You don’t have to like how.”

Raven opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, but Clarke silences her with a look. She shrugs, sighing heavily. “Fine.”

She heads for the door and Clarke follows her out. “Thanks.”

Raven stops in the doorway, turning back to face Clarke. “You’re a better friend than we give you credit for,” she says, frowning. “I’m sorry about that.”

Clarke feels her heart clench hard in her chest. She struggles to find something to say in response, but Raven just gives her a tight smile and heads for her car. Clarke watches her pull away, a heavy feeling in her stomach.

She gets another text from Harper a few hours later. 

_False alarm,_ she’s sent. _Father Blake will be there after all. Thank God!_

Clarke snorts, tossing her phone onto the couch. Thank God indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, I've been writing this disaster of a fic in a non-linear fashion so it's a struggle to actually produce a whole chapter
> 
> ALSO a spoiler for y'all impatient motherfuckers: they will be boning for real next chapter. you're welcome.
> 
> please oh please leave me a comment


	8. the fuckening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes darken, lips pressing together. “Are you sure that’s what you want, Clarke?”
> 
> Her name on his lips, her real name, means this question is something more. She’s not sure what part that _more_ is: if she’s sure she wants him, or if she’s sure she wants him to cram his cock into her cunt, or if she’s sure she wants him to fall in love with her.
> 
> Yes to all three, by any accounts.
> 
> ****  
> oh boy guess what? it's time, baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/spoiler: absolutely unrealistic sex: fucking filthy, just complete debauchery. I have frankly outdone myself this time

She calls Cillian.

If Bellamy is going to the wedding after all, that means he’s gotten her note, accepted her offer. Which means that Clarke—well, she doesn’t want to think about what it means. She just wants to wallow in self pity, which in this context involves getting fucked by Cillian’s average-sized-but-remarkably-efficient cock.

It’s a consolation prize, to be sure, but then again what in Clarke’s life isn’t at this point?

So as the night starts to fall with no contact from Bellamy, Clarke calls Cillian, and invites him over. She doesn’t bother with the pretense that this is a date, it very much isn’t, but he doesn’t seem to take issue with that.

She doesn’t take a shower, doesn’t shave, just lubes her body up in lotion and spritzes on some perfume. 

At the last minute she remembers that she still doesn’t have any furniture, and it probably would’ve been smarter to try and get him to take her back to his place, but it’s too late for her to do anything about it. In a last ditch effort to distract him, she puts on one of the nicer sets of lingerie she owns. One of the only sets, really. She’d bought it in an attempt to do something special for Lexa, even if the other girl had not appreciated it. Clarke tops off the lacy garments with a long coat and a pair of heels. 

She probably looks foolish, she thinks, but she hopes it will be sexy enough to get him into her bedroom (and into her unframed bed) without comment.

Clarke lingers by the door as she hears a car pull up, waiting for his knock. When it comes, she takes a deep breath, plasters on a smile, and brushes her hair back. Sexy mask firmly in place, Clarke swings open the door

It’s not Cillian.

Bellamy looks back at her, wide eyes mirroring her own. He’s wearing his priest suit again, all buttoned up and proper. Clarke wonders if the collar at his throat is the one she’d returned earlier that day. Probably not, she decides.

“Hey, I just wanted to—” he starts, and then his gaze drops down, taking in her coat. His throat bobs and his eyebrows pull together. “Sorry, were you on your way out?”

Clarke shakes her head, stepping back to let him past her. “No, just coming back. Come in.”

Bellamy nods as he enters. He comes to stand by the couch, fingers resting tentatively on the back. Clarke watches, unsure of what to do.

Bellamy glances back at her. “Were you going to take your coat off?”

Clarke balks, pulling the top of it closer together. She shakes her head. “I’m still a little cold.”

“Right,” he says, and swallows hard. “Well, I came to tell you’ve I’ve decided to go through with the wedding after all.”

This is not news to Clarke, and she wonders why he thinks it might be. “I know.”

Bellamy fidgets, his eyes downcast. “Right, I figured Harper would tell you, but I just—” He pulls something out of his pocket. Her stomach lurches as she recognizes the note, and their eyes meet. “What is this, Clarke?”

His tone is quiet, deceptively gentle with an edge that cuts Clarke to the quick. She shrugs. “A peace offering.”

He frowns, opening his mouth to speak, but a knock sounds at Clarke’s front door. She looks over at it, shifting guiltily.

Maybe Cillian will just… go away.

“Are you expecting somebody?” Bellamy asks and Clarke shakes her head, like the liar that she is. “Okay, well—” The knock comes again, more insistent. “Should you get that?”

Clarke winces, shaking her head again. “Probably just Jehovah’s Witnesses or something, it’s fine.” _Go away_ , she thinks firmly in Cillian’s direction. He knocks again. “What were you saying?”

“Clarke!” Cillian calls through the door. “It’s me, Cillian!”

Bellamy’s eyes darken, and they flick to Clarke suspiciously. She grimaces. “Sorry, just one sec.”

She goes to the door, opening it it just a crack. Cillian stands on the porch, smiling broadly. She tries to get him to leave, speaking quickly and quietly, but it just confuses him.

“—but you invited me?”

“I know, but now I’m busy with—”

“Was it not good last time? I’m very—”

“No! It was good, it’s just—”

“—can’t have been, because now you—”

“—best sex I’ve ever had! But, my priest, he’s—”

“—really can’t have been that good if you don’t—”

“ _I came nine times, okay?!_ ”

Clarke winces at her own outburst, glancing back into the apartment at Bellamy. He’s watching with his arms crossed across his chest, expression inscrutable.

Cillian blinks back at her. “Nine times? Really?”

Clarke nods, lips pulled tightly across her face. “Really.”

A smile spreads onto his lips, and he winks at her. Clarke gives him a halfhearted goodbye as he finally agrees to leave, and closes the door.

Bellamy raises an eyebrow at her. “Nine times?”

“I just had to say something to get him off my back,” Clarke lies, waving it away. He looks at her darkly, and she doesn’t think she’s convinced him in the slightest. “The note?” Clarke prods, and immediately regrets it. 

_I’ll find a reason not to be there_ , the note promised. _You’ll never have to see or hear from me again. Just do the wedding._ It was written on the back of the slip of paper he’d given her that first night, with his cell number on it. A symbolic gesture that she was serious, that she could give him up, if only he’d do this one thing.

She doesn’t want to talk about it.

“I won’t ask you not to go, Clarke. It’s not fair.”

“I know,” Clarke says, her eyes on the ground. “That’s why I offered.”

Clarke hates it, hates the idea of it, hates everything about the prospect of giving him up, willingly, without a fight. But she knows the odds of anything coming from this— this _thing_ she has with Bellamy are slim to none, and she can’t justify saving that when it comes at the cost of Monty and Harper’s wedding.

Clarke knows she will never get a romantic fairy-tale happy ending, but that doesn’t mean no one should.

Bellamy makes a frustrated noise. “No, I— I mean, I’ll do it, promise or no. You should be there too. They want you there.”

Clarke stops short, looking up in surprise. “Oh.”

“It wouldn’t be fair,” he continues, shoulders rolling back, “to let this thing—to let my _weakness_ concerning you— affect the wedding. It’s— it wouldn’t be right.”

Clarke draws in a sharp breath. “Weakness?”

_Love is weakness_ , she remembers Lexa saying early in their relationship, as she scoffed at Clarke’s romantic notions. Clarke had worn her heart on her sleeve before that, easy to fall in love, and easy to express it, but Lexa poked and prodded her soft spots until Clarke’s skin grew thick, and she learned to keep her mouth shut. Once she’d finished, and the last of Clarke had hardened, Lexa left Clarke for not loving her enough. Irony’s a bitch, isn’t it?

“Weakness,” he agrees, and she feels her stomach lurch. “I want things from you that I shouldn’t— that _I can’t_. And I’m not— I’m not as strong as I should be, when it comes to you. When it comes to the things I want from you. I’ve never had trouble before, but now, with you— it’s too much. I want too much, and if I let it, it will ruin me.”

“Sex, you mean,” Clarke says flatly.

He nods. “Among other things.”

Something about that, about his somber agreement, makes Clarke’s blood boil. The things Clarke wants— they will ruin her, she knows they will. She knows Bellamy won’t pick her, but the sex? Why is sex his sticking point? He’s already let her blow him twice, has gotten her off more times than that. 

“Priests have sex, Bellamy!” Clarke exclaims, throwing up her hands in frustration. “I looked it up. It’s not the end of the world, you won’t burst into flames!”

She knows it’s not about that, but it makes her feel dirty, feel ugly. Guilty, that the one thing he thinks will surely condemn him is to be with her. She feels used, even though that doesn’t make any sense.

Clarke watches as Bellamy stands, back straight, looking down at where his fingers rest on the back of the couch. His jaw is visibly clenched, entire body tense, and he tilts his head up.

“I can’t have sex with you because I’ll fall in love with you,” he says matter-of-factly, taking a deep breath. “And if I fall in love with you, I may not burst into flames, but my life will be fucked.”

And that’s— _oh_.

Clarke’s heart clenches hard at his words, hardly even daring to hope. She stands back, watching as Bellamy rucks a hand through his messy curls. He looks at her, his expression sad and desperate. 

“I don’t have other friends, Clarke, or family,” Bellamy says, his tone imploring. “This —the priesthood— it isn’t just my job. If I fall in love with you and it doesn’t work out, I don’t have a Harper or a Monty or a Raven or whoever to pull me out of it. I don’t have a mom or a sister. I don’t get a rebound, or another chance. The church is all the family I’ve got. It’s all I’ve got at all.”

“You have me,” she whispers, heart racing, and he turns stiffly towards the kitchen, his gaze anywhere but her.

“I don’t, Clarke, don’t you get that?”

“You do.” Clarke takes a step towards Bellamy. Her hand reaches out to touch him, to comfort him, but he flinches away and it falls limply back to her side. 

“I don’t,” he insists, “I can’t. I made my decision, to give that up. I know you don’t believe in God, but I do; and I made a vow to Him. Even if I wanted— Clarke, I can’t. I’m supposed to love people like a father, not like—” He chokes on the end of his sentence.

“So you get it, right?” Bellamy asks, spinning to face her. His eyes are almost wild, and she feels her stomach flip. “You understand why we can’t?”

Clarke nods slowly, her gaze steady on him. She doesn’t get it, not at all. She will never understand. But he— he could love her. He thinks he can love her.

They stand, silent, staring at each other. Eventually, Bellamy’s throat clicks, and he lets out a deep exhale, shoulders deflating.

“Fuck,” Bellamy murmurs under his breath. His head tilts, expression thoughtful, almost resigned. And there’s something about it, something about the way he’s looking at her that makes Clarke think— “We’re gonna have sex aren’t we?”

Makes her think _that_.

Clarke purses her lips “Yeah,” she says, biting her cheek. She gives him a small nod. “Yeah, we are.”

Bellamy nods back slowly. “Okay,” he says, taking a step towards her. His fingers come to rest on the side of her jaw, and her eyes flutter shut. “Okay.”

He tilts her chin to kiss her softly, sweetly, his lips pliant and plush on hers. She kisses him back, letting him take his time, go at his own pace.

His fingers slide to the front of her coat, unlacing the belt and pulling it open. He makes a little noise at the exposed skin he finds under it, and Clarke winces, blushing. “Sorry, I—”

Bellamy shakes his head, holding a finger to his lips. “No, no, just— just let me look at you.”

He pushes the coat from her shoulders and she shrugs it off, standing before him in just her underwear and heels. His eyes are dark and hungry, burning over her skin. 

“Did you wear this for him?” Bellamy asks, his tone hot with jealousy. Clarke bites her lip and nods. His eyes darken further. 

Bellamy steps forward, crowding into her space. His fingers slip into the hair at the nape of her neck and he noses at her throat, breath hot on her skin. “Would you have thought of me?”

His lips close around her pulse point and Clarke nearly keens. “Yes.”

Bellamy’s hand twists in her hair, wrenching her head back and Clarke shudders. “Bedroom?”

Clarke nods, letting out a shaky breath. She pulls him through her bedroom door, kicking off her shoes and shutting the door behind them. Bellamy pulls her in for a searing kiss, then almost knocks her backwards, so she goes bouncing across the bed. He looks down at her, eyes hot, and deliberately reaches around his neck, popping the closure on the clerical collar and discarding the white slip on the floor. Clarke watching eagerly, heat growing between her thighs.

He kicks off his shoes and pants as he unbuttons his shirt, coming to kneel in front of her on her shitty mattress on the floor in just his boxers. Clarke lurches forward to meet him.

He towers over her, even like this, with both of them on their knees. Bellamy gazes down at her, his hands coming up to cup her face, tilting her chin towards him. Clarke watches him with wide eyes.

“Are you sure you want this, Princess?” Bellamy asks. “It’s not going to be easy.”

Clarke wets her lips and nods, blinking up at him. “Please.”

He gives her a small, satisfied smile. “Okay.”

Their mouths crash together, hot and wet and brutal. She pulls his bottom lip between her teeth, and he returns the favor. Their tongues dance, mouths open and searching. Pushing and pulling and biting: it’s a dance, it’s a fight, it’s a song, it’s a battle.

There will never be anything like kissing Bellamy. Clarke cannot begin to describe it, begin to describe the way their mouths work together, the way his hands glide across her skin, so hot and rough and smooth. The way it feels as he presses her back into the mattress, his body covering hers.

His mouth trails down from hers, sucking marks into her skin as he goes: first at her neck, then her clavicle, then down to the tops of her breasts. He reaches behind her, unclasping her bra, and helps her take it off.

Clarke’s fingers tangle in his hair as his lips find one nipple, sucking hard at it. He palms her other breast firmly. When he lets go with his mouth, he nips playfully at the soft skin above her breast, then presses a kiss to soothe the hurt as she whimpers.

“Please,” Clarke begs, “Bellamy, more.”

“More?” he asks, eyes glinting. His hand slides down to her panties, cupping her mound through the thin fabric. He traces the line of her folds, pressing the lace against her wet slit. “Like this?”

She gasps, her hips jerking up at the contact. “Yes!”

His fingers tug at the top of her panties, pulling them taut against her cunt. The pressure on her clit is ecstatic, and she whines for more. Bellamy almost laughs, pulling down her panties and tossing them to the side.

His lips graze the top of her mound, pressing a gentle kiss to the blonde curls at the apex of her thighs while his fingers find her weeping hole. He enters her with two, scissoring them to loosen her up before adding a third.

Clarke cries out as he sucks on her clit, her hand flying to the back of his head. “Please, just fuck me.”

Bellamy lets up on her clit, looking up at her. His fingers continue to pump in and out of her cunt. “Not yet, Princess. Need to get you ready if you’re going to take me.”

“I’m ready,” Clarke insists, her voice high and thready. “I’m—”

Her words cut off with a gasp as he takes her clit back into his mouth, grazing it with his teeth as his fingers work her open harshly. He hums against her and she shudders, eyes practically rolling back.

There’s something _more_ about this time, something even hotter, and it pushes Clarke to the precipice faster than anything—or any _one_ — ever has. “Fuck,” she whimpers, her hands twisting in his hair. “I’m gonna—”

Her face pinches, forehead creasing, eyebrows pulling together, and her mouth opens in a empty cry as she breaks. Her cunt spasms around Bellamy’s fingers but he doesn’t let up, sliding his pinky in alongside the other three and spreading them.

It’s more full than she’s ever felt in her life.

Bellamy hushes her as she whines, pressing gentle kisses onto the soft skin of her belly. “One more,” he says. “One more and we’ll see if you can take my cock.”

“I can,” Clarke protests.

He hums doubtfully, his fingers stroking slowly in and out of her, giving her a chance to come down from her orgasm before he starts again. “I don’t know, Princess. You’re so tight, I don’t know if you’ll be able to handle me.”

She not sure whether to be proud or annoyed. She can take him, she _will_ take him, or fucking else. Clarke has not put up with all this bullshit just to miss out because Bellamy’s cock is too big for her cunt.

“I will,” she says firmly. “I can.”

He grins at her, a smirk than is almost cruel when combined with his glittering eyes. “Then be good for me and let me make you come again.”

Clarke groans but acquiesces, relaxing back into the pillows. Bellamy pushes her legs open wider, spreading her cunt out for his perusal. Clarke can feel her cheeks flush as he looks her over, and she fights the urge to pull her knees back together.

Bellamy’s head dips down to lick a hot stripe down her slit, tasting the slick that has gathered there from her last orgasm. Clarke isn’t a squirter, but she is fucking dripping; her juices slipping down between her ass cheeks and soaking through the bed beneath her.

She will definitely need to change the sheets after this.

He starts to toy with her clit again, keeping her stuffed full of his fingers. The sensation is almost overwhelming: feeling an orgasm start to build as he simultaneously works to stretch the rim of her pussy so he can fit his cock inside her.

Clarke has never really been a size queen, hasn’t really fucked enough men to even know what would count, and never used anything more than average sized sex toys with her female partners; but something about the idea of opening up, of trying to take Bellamy’s massive cock inside her cunt— it makes her back arch. She wants him to break her open, to ruin her; so that she feels him between her legs for days.

Bellamy rubs teasing circles over her clit, pumping his hand slowly into her. “Such a good girl,” he coos, and Clarke preens at the praise. “Taking four of my fingers. Letting me stretch out this pretty pussy.”

Clarke wonders idly if she could take his whole hand. Bellamy groans, and she realizes she must have said that out loud. She wonders if he likes that, likes the idea of fucking her open with his fist.

Clarke shudders, pleasure pooling hot in her abdomen at the filthy images her mind conjures. An idea for another day, or maybe just for her dirty fantasies. She’ll still not sure if she’ll even be able to fit his cock.

Bellamy speeds up his ministrations, switching back to three fingers so he can fuck her deeper, faster. He seems to have abandoned his task of spreading her pussy wider, focusing instead on driving her towards her orgasm. 

“So fucking good for me,” he says. “Just a little more, and then I’ll give you my cock.”

Clarke thinks he wants her to come again so her cunt will be looser, too tired to put up resistance to the intrusion of his cock. She’s not sure if it works that way; but the image of her, lying boneless and fucked out while he spears her open, is enough to send Clarke over the edge again.

She whimpers as his hands fall away so her cunt clamps down on nothing while her climax rips through her like a wildfire. When she opens her eyes again, he’s further away than she expected, watching her with flinty eyes.

He better not have changed his mind. Clarke might die if he’s changed his mind.

“Is something wrong?” Clarke asks, and he shakes his head tersely. She bites her lip, sitting up. “You said— if I came again, you said you’d let me try to take you.”

His eyes darken, lips pressing together. “Are you sure that’s what you want, Clarke?”

Her name on his lips, her real name, means this question is something more. She’s not sure what part that _more_ is: if she’s sure she wants him, or if she’s sure she wants him to cram his cock into her cunt, or if she’s sure she wants him to fall in love with her.

Yes to all three, by any accounts.

Clarke answers him by tugging him between her legs, pressing her lips to his with all the feeling she can muster. Her hands tangle in his dark hair, holding him to her as she kisses him. “Yes,” she says against his lips, “Yes, I’m sure.”

He presses her back again, her knees coming up around his hips. As her back hits the mattress, her hands slide down to his boxers, pushing them down his legs so his cock springs free, finally. It slips between her legs, gliding along the length of her slit before coming to rest heavily on her abdomen.

She gulps. Every time she thinks she’s gotten used to how big he is, thinks her mental picture is accurate, she’s shocked again. His cock really is huge, nearly as big around as her wrist. Where it rests on her stomach, it reaches nearly to her belly button. 

Clarke wonders how deep the average vagina goes. She maybe should’ve looked that up instead of reading the Wikipedia page for “Clerical Collar” four times over, but hindsight is always 20-20.

He thrust his hips once, sliding his cock across her belly in a a mimicry of sex, an idea of what will happen within her. Clarke’s cunt clenches in anticipation.

Bellamy slips his fingers back into her cunt, testing the give of her hole. He licks his lips, meeting her eyes. “Ready?”

As she’ll ever be. Clarke nods.

He notches his cock into place by her entrance and looks down at her, his soft expression at odds with the setting. “You’ll tell me if it hurts?”

Clarke reaches up to caress his cheek and he leans into her touch. Her hands slides back into his hair, dragging him down for a searing kiss before releasing him.

“I’ll tell you if I don’t like it,” she compromises with a teasing grin, and a smirk curls across his lips.

“Brave Princess,” Bellamy says; his hand finding her neck, thumb stroking across the hollow of her throat.

And he begins to push in, the blunt head of his cock pressing firmly at the rim of her pussy. The head actually _pops_ in, like nothing Clarke’s ever felt before, the first two inches sliding into her past the resistance of her opening.

Her eyes fly open and Bellamy groans. “So good for me,” he says, “So tight.”

He slides further into her, spearing her open on his length, and Clarke grips the sheets hard to fight the urge to scrabble for purchase. When she looks down, he’s less than halfway in, and she wonders how that’s even possible.

She can feel him in her throat.

Bellamy thrusts shallowly, working her open with what he’s already fit inside her. Clarke is grateful for his preparation, grateful for the orgasm he’d insisted on. It’s more pressure than it is pain, and Clarke thinks that if he’d fucked her when she first begged him to her cunt would’ve torn open.

He presses on her clit, watching her face carefully. “Ready for a little more?”

_Why the hell not?_ Clarke nods.

With a grunt, his cock slides deeper, stopping maybe three inches from the base. Clarke did not think to account for the fact that his cock is thicker towards the bottom, and she gasps, hips jerking up, instinctively moving away from the intrusion; but there’s nowhere to go.

Bellamy stays still, his lips dipping to her neck, sucking bruises onto the tender skin as he tries to soothe her. “You don’t have to take any more,” he promises, stroking her hair. “You’ve done so well already.”

Clarke shudders, her cunt twitching around him, and she feels his back stiffen as he fights the urge to thrust. “I want to,” she insists, one foot hooking around his hips, pulling him closer. “I want to feel all of you.”

Bellamy starts to fuck in and out of her, his cock dragging heavily against the stretched skin of her entrance. Clarke’s eyes close, her forehead creasing. His fingers slip in between them rubbing circles over her clit. “Isn’t this enough?” Bellamy asks. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

But Clarke wants to take all of him. She knows it’s possible, knows that the other girls he’s been with have. She shakes her head. “Please.”

Bellamy sighs. “Alright.”

And he fills her up. Clarke’s back arches of the bed, her mouth falling open as she lets out a keen. Bellamy cradles her head and shoulders, whispering reassurances into her skin as she pants into the crook of his neck. 

It hurts in the best way.

As her body acclimates to his cock, Clarke pushes him back, so he’s hovering over her on his arms. Bellamy looks down at her, eyes full of worry,

Clarke licks her lips. “I want to see.”

His expression shifts to dark satisfaction, and he sits back, gripping her hips to keep his cock from sliding out. It’s almost the same position they were in when he finger-fucked her on the couch. Clarke props herself up on one elbow, tilting her pelvis so she can almost see where his cock disappears into her hot cunt. She runs a curious finger along the point where the meet, and Bellamy groans. 

“Can you see that?” He asks, his voice low. Clarke shakes her head. “The way the rim of your little cunt is stretched around my cock, swallowing me up— it’s obscene.”

His hips drop back as he leans forward again, letting a few inches of his cock slide out, and he thrusts back in to the hilt. He pulls out again, nearly all the way this time, just the head of his cock resting inside her. Clarke’s cunt feels torturously empty, even as it welcomes the reprieve. Bellamy’s fingers find her clit.

“Fuck,” Clarke whimpers, biting her lip. “Please—”

“Please what?” Bellamy asks.

“Please fuck me.”

A shudder runs through Bellamy’s body, and his hips snap hard against hers, impaling her on the full length of his cock. It’s rough and fast and wet, and it’s everything Clarke thought it would be. She feels split open, feels absolutely surrounded by him, feels owned.

He’s everywhere at once: his cock in her cunt, stuffing her full; his tongue in her mouth, swallowing her noises; his fingers fisting in her hair, spreading her knees wider, pressing down on her stomach, wrapping around her throat.

She’s going to come again, she realizes; a cry ripping through her lips.

“Does it hurt?” Bellamy asks, his nose in her hair, lips brushing the shell of her ear. His tone is light: half joking, half real concern.

“Yes,” Clarke admits, and his hips slow. Bellamy draws back, looking at her with nervous eyes. 

His face changes as he takes in her expression. “Do you like it?”

Clarke blinks up at him and nods. 

Bellamy swears, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His fingers span over the breadth of her throat and he bites at the thin skin covering her pulse. “Fuck, you’re perfect. So good for me.”

He pounds into her with jarring thrusts, his cock spearing her open over and over, slamming into the spongy wall of her cunt. Clarke tilts her pelvis to take him deeper, meeting his hips with her own. He bottoms out every time, his pubic bone grinding against her clit with each thrust.

She’s never felt anything like this, never had sex feel so close to a spiritual experience. It’s filthy, what he’s doing to her, but his touches are reverent, almost worshipping. Clarke would gladly lay down on an altar for him, like a lamb for the slaughter, so long as he keeps touching her like this, keeps fucking her like this.

Clarke thinks about his words earlier— _I’ll fall in love with you_ — and shudders, her heart and pussy fluttering at the same time.

She’s so full. It’s so much— _too much_ , even; but it’s so good. Her fingers tangle in his hair, and she gasps for breath, his powerful thrust forcing the air from her lungs. It’s not what she’d expected, not what she’d hoped for: it’s more. 

“So good,” he mutters, fingers sliding down to her clit. “Fuck, Clarke.”

Her name on his lips again is what does it.

“Oh, fuck,” Clarke cries. “Oh, Bellamy, I—” She bites back the confession, dragging his lips to meet hers as the waves of her climax crest over her.

Her cunt clenches around his cock uselessly, too full for there to be any real give. Bellamy clearly feels it anyway, his hips stuttering against her, a low groan tearing from his throat.

“Fuck, Princess, your cunt is squeezing me.” His thrusts grow erratic, pumping into her even harder. He holds himself over her, and Clarke can see red spots of exertion on his cheeks as he pounds her tired pussy.

Bellamy hooks one of her knees with his arm, pressing it back up towards her chest so his strokes can go longer, deeper. He’s close, she thinks, feeling his cock swell just a little further, already impossibly large inside her.

She shift her hips and Bellamy’s cock slides the deepest yet, his head bumping against Clarke’s cervix. They both gasp, their breath hot between them.

Clarke feels the weak crest of an unexpected orgasm ripple through her, her overstimulated body shuddering with the force of it. It pulls Bellamy over with her, the aftershocks milking him as he spills, cock hilted inside her cunt. She can feel his cum fill her, hot and wet.

Bellamy drops a gentle kiss onto her lips, panting. He holds himself over her for a while, stroking her hair as they catch their breath.

After a bit, Bellamy shift his hips, pulling out of her. Clarke winces, letting out a quiet whimper, and he looks at her apologetically. “Sorry,” he says, as his cock slips out fully. “It would be worse if we waited.”

He rolls off her and stands, looking down at Clarke where she lays spread on of the bed. She feels a pang of anxiety. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, “I’ll be right back.”

She watches as he pads through the door fully naked, listening to the sound of the sink turning on and off. He returns with a wet washcloth, settling back between Clarke’s thighs.

He nudges them apart gently, wiping at the mess they’d made. His finger trails along the puffy opening of her pussy, pressing against the edge. Clarke makes a small noise.

“Sore?” Bellamy asks, and she nods. Something like satisfaction slides across his face, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes. _Men_. 

He eyes her cunt, wiping the cum that drips from her off with the washcloth perhaps a bit too intently. Clarke tugs it away from him and tosses it to the floor where it lands with a wet splat.

Bellamy lets out a small laugh, settling back into the bed. He wraps her in his arms, pulling her to his side and kissing her lazily. Clarke looks at him from under her eyelashes, fucked out and exhausted, warmth growing in her chest.

Bellamy smiles at her. “Hey.”

She smiles back, nose to nose with him. “Hey.”

“Can I stay?” Bellamy asks.

Clarke feels her heart soar. “Yeah,” she says. “You can stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that.... too dirty maybe? Have I read too much porn at this point? Is this what happens? You get in too deep and have to write something just truly appalling? Let's be honest here, this fic is only 10% plot and 90% just bad porn. And to make it just that much better, just so everyone is aware, I am writing this trash on the company dime.
> 
> ;)
> 
> hoped u liked it anyways, you filthy animals
> 
> wouldn't mind a comment or a kudo


	9. but sir this is my emotional support smut fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s going to be— a lot, if you keep your hips down like that,” he warns, and she gives him a weak grin.
> 
> “Promise?”
> 
> ****  
> B-b-b-bonus round!!!! Just fluffy smut, because you know what, frankly we deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dedicated to who_needs_reality, one of this fic's most avid supporters

She wakes up next to a pleasantly warm— and pleasantly _hard_ —body.

Clarke stretches like a cat, pressing her ass back against the stiff erection nestled up against her, feeling the delicious soreness between her legs. As she grinds back once more, a heavy hand swings around and catches her hip, stilling her.

A deep grumble comes from behind her, so sleepy and adorable that she lets out a small laugh. 

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Princess,” Bellamy mumbles against the skin of her neck.

She reaches her hand back, sliding her fingers into his hair and tugging as his teeth graze the crook of her shoulder. “Who says I can’t finish it?”

In a second he’s got her on her back, his legs straddling her middle, pinning her down to the bed. He’s got a wrist in each hand, pressed against the pillows by her head. His eyes are dark, and Clarke feels the air leave her in a whoosh.

Bellamy gives her a savage smile and leans down, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat. Just as Clarke’s hips buck up, he rolls off her and gives her a big smile, cheeks dimpling in the warm morning light. “Coffee first, then sex.”

Clarke groans, flopping back against the pillows. 

“Do we have to?” she whines, and he lets out a small chuckle, tugging her unwilling body out of bed.

“Just one cup,” he promises, tugging on his boxers. Clarke grabs a big shirt from her dresser and slips it over her head, squinting at Bellamy’s cheery face.

“Ugh,” she says, making a face. “I forgot you were a morning person.” 

He laughs, puttering into the kitchen in front of her. She flops onto the couch, draping her torso over the back of it so she can watch him make coffee, her head pillowed on her folded arms.  The coffee machine starts its gentle hiss. Clarke can hear Bellamy banging around in the cabinets, looking for something. 

“How do you like your eggs?” He asks, coming up with a frying pan. He flips it over in his hands triumphantly, like a conquering hero.

“You said one cup of coffee,” Clarke protests. 

“I lied.” Bellamy gives her a beatific smile and she rolls her eyes fondly.

“Scrambled is fine.”

“Scrambled it is,” he says, and turns back to the fridge, pulling out the eggs. Clarke watches him as he cooks breakfast, basking in the morning sun streaming through the front windows. It's— nice, she thinks. Really nice. Really, super, very nice.

He brings her coffee as the eggs cook, and Clarke downs it gratefully, feeling the caffeine start to sink into her veins.

“We probably should have talked about it last night, but for the record, I am on birth control,” Clarke calls out to his back, feeling the remnants of last night seep a little between her legs. She presses her thighs together, attempting to spare her couch from further desecration. “And I used a condom with Ci—”

Bellamy holds up a hand, his shoulders visibly tense as he shovels the eggs onto plates. “Yeah, got it.”

He stalks back towards her, a hint of bitterness clouding his face. Clarke giggles a little at his obvious jealousy. “Well, anyways, no need to worry about that. Or about rushing to the pharmacy or anything.”

“Great,” Bellamy says, handing her a plate of eggs and a fork. He sits down next to her on the couch. “That could’ve been… not ideal.”

Clarke hums through a mouthful of eggs. She swallows and looks at Bellamy, tilting her head curiously. “What are your thoughts on the morning-after pill, anyways? Or, like, abortion?”

Bellamy had been pretty socially liberal as she remembers him, but that doesn’t gel very well with the whole _Catholic Church_ shtick. He gives her an unamused look, looking primly down his nose. “The pope says they’re bad.”

She rolls her eyes and pokes him in the stomach. She’s not sure why this bothers her so much, but it— frankly, it does. “Does Bellamy say they’re bad?”

He rolls his eyes right back. “Bellamy says that the pope probably wouldn’t agree with his thoughts on the matter.” 

And that’s good enough for Clarke. She takes the plate out of his hands and stacks it with her own, setting them both on the floor, then climbs over him.

His hands find her hips, settling her ass against him. His expression is pleasantly surprised, and she thinks it’s adorable. “Not the only thoughts of mine the pope wouldn’t agree with,” he mutters, and bucks his pelvis up against her center. “You sure you want to do this again? You’re not—” One of his hands slips between them, his palm cupping her bare mound. He smiles viciously, “—too sore?”

Clarke’s head tips back, and she grinds down against his fingers. “Shut up.”

Bellamy’s lips find her throat, chuckling softly. “You like it when I talk.”

“I—” She gasps as one of his fingers slips inside her, and she begrudgingly agrees. “Yeah, maybe.”

Clarke flinches a little as he tries to slide another finger into her cunt. Despite her protests, she is, in fact, pretty sore. She opens her eyes to find Bellamy looking at her, his expression soft and worried.

“We don’t have to, you know,” he says, his eyes nauseatingly sincere. “There’s other things—”

Clarke gives him a look, bucking her hips against his still fingers to take them deeper inside her. Her hands grasp his chin, pulling his face to hers in a searing kiss. His tongue tastes like fresh coffee, and she’s maybe a little glad she agreed to wait until after breakfast, if only for the lack of morning breath.

“Just fuck me already, please?” Bellamy laughs, his hand sliding under her ass, cupping her thighs and hiking her up against him. She lets out a little shriek as he stands, wrapping her legs around his waist. “If you drop me, I swear to—”

He nips the skin behind her ear and her words fade off in a breathy moan. “Swear to who, Princess?”

Clarke doesn’t finish her thought, not wanting to invite God into the room, not now. There will be no suspiciously timed interruptions, not this morning. This morning, Bellamy is hers, and hers alone.

He sinks to his knees on her mattress, Clarke still clasped in his arms, and lays her gently back against the rumpled sheets. His eyes are reverent, worshipful as they strip off her shirt, exposing her body to the warm sunlight that floods the room. His breath hitches as he looks at her, throat ticking. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and Clarke flushes, shifting self consciously beneath him. He stops her hands as they move to cover her stomach, his eyebrows pulling together. “Really, Clarke. So fucking beautiful.”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to the soft skin below her navel, the flesh that’s not quite as toned and taut as she’d like it to be. Lexa had been so thin, so lithe and svelte and sexy; that Clarke had always felt insecure with her own body and its soft curves. But Bellamy’s kiss is adoring, his lips tracing the small curve of her belly, and she thinks for the first time that maybe he might be right.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging his face up to meet hers, and she kisses his mouth sweet and slow, pouring her feelings into it as though he could taste the thoughts on her tongue. When he pulls back, his eyes are filled with such devotion that she almost lets the truth slip from her mouth. 

“I—” she starts, and swallows, shaking the words away with a smile. He looks at her, head tilted in curiosity. She pulls him back in, whispering a different set of words against his lips, a consolation. “I want you.”

Bellamy smiles back playfully, his hands spanning the bare skin of her back. “Now?”

Clarke nods. “Now.”

Her hands slide down his sides, finding his boxers and pushing them down over his hips. Bellamy finishes the job for her, pulling them over his knees and kicking them off. His cock is fully hard, and the head finds her slit in a second, bumping through her folds as he slides his hips against her.

“So wet for me,” he groans. “Are you sure you—”

She cuts him off with her mouth on his, her teeth grazing his bottom lip in a filthy kiss. “Yes.”

His head dips down, breath coming hot against her neck. He slots their hips together, notching the head of his cock at her entrance but not quite pushing in. “And you’ll tell me if it—”

“If it hurts,” she finishes for him, her fingers curling around the back of his neck. In truth it already hurts a little, but the memory of how _good_ it will be— Clarke couldn’t care less. “Yes,just—please.”

With a deep growl, Bellamy presses forwards, spearing her open on his fat cock. Her mouth falls open, head tilting back as she struggles to take him. His fingers find her clit, working her nub. “Relax, Princess. You can take it.”

Clarke lets out a deep shuddering breath and hooks a foot around his ass, pressing his cock further into her, until he’s balls deep, nestled against her cervix. “Yeah, I know.”

He laughs, rewarding her boldness with a sharp thrust that leaves her gasping. “Good girl.”

Clarke’s back arches at the words, her hips tilting to accept his cock as he starts to drive into her, slow and steady and deep. Bellamy’s fingers slide up her ribs, curling possessively around the curve of her breast.

“Have I told you how much I love these tits?” His fingers toy with the bud of her nipple, pinching lightly. He drops a soft kiss onto the top of her breast, where his mouth had left bruises the night before.

Clarke’s fingers grip at his dark hair, trying unsuccessfully not to pull. “You may have mentioned it.”

He pumps his hips into her again, mouth moving up to her neck. His fingers grind into her clit, rubbing tight circles in time with his cock. “Good.”

It goes on like that for a while: his thick cock pumping deep and slow, his mouth nipping and sucking at the tender skin of her throat, his fingers gently toying with the nub of her clit; and it’s excellent, but it’s not— _enough_.

Clarke lets out a frustrated cry, pulling his hips towards her in an attempt to spur him to go faster, harder, but Bellamy resists.

“Bellamy, please,” she moans desperately, and _Bellamy_ — he chuckles into her hair, that bastard.

“Is something wrong?” His tone is playful, and it’s so obvious he knows exactly what he’s doing to her that Clarke almost wants to scream at him to stop messing around. His hips move even slower, the pace torturous. “Isn’t it nice like this?”

“I need—” she pants, and glares when he laughs again. She smacks his arm. “More, you bastard.”

His thrusts all but stop, and he pulls back, as though he’s considering something. The fingers on her clit, however, speed up, working Clarke up even higher. “More?”

“Yes, Bellamy, please,” she begs, her ankle curling around his hip to urge him forward. “ _More_.”

His hand finds her knee, unhooking her leg from his hip and pressing it back towards her body. He pulls out of her completely, and her cunt clenches weakly around nothing, gaping and empty. Clarke lets a squeal of protest, but then his hands are on her hips, flipping her onto her stomach, and she understands.

Bellamy curls his body over hers, his hand slipping under her belly and pulling her hips up, slotting the head of his cock back into her aching cunt. The other hand wraps around her hair, gathering it into a fist at the nape of her neck. He uses it to twist her head, so her face is turned sideways, cheek pressed against the pillow. Her breath comes in quick pants, eyes clenched tight, eager for what’s to come.

With a sharp jerk, he forces the entire length of his cock back into her body, pounding into her wet cunt with quick, hard thrusts that Clarke can feel jarring her bones. His teeth find the curve of her shoulder, biting down on the thick cord of muscle.

“Like this?” Bellamy breathes into her ear, and Clarke nods frantically. He presses a kiss onto the soft skin at the nape of her neck. “Should’ve known. Dirty girl.”

The words, the thrusts battering her cervix, the fingers on her clit— it’s too much after the slow torture of his earlier pace, and Clarke feels herself shatter embarrassingly quickly. The walls of her cunt flutter in anticipation, and then she’s coming, nearly convulsing with the force of it.

“Feels so good,” Bellamy groans, fucking into her hard. “Your little pussy clenching around me.” Clarke shudders with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

When the climax has passed, she’s almost exhausted. Her knees feel weak, body limp and heavy. She feels her hips sag, and Bellamy catches them with a hand under her belly. His thrusts slow, and he gently lowers her hips to the bed, cock sliding out until only the head remains. 

“You okay, Clarke?” Bellamy asks, his voice soft with concern.

“I’m great,” she says.“Just tired.”

He draws back, eyes full of worry. “Should we stop?”

Clarke turns her head, pulling him into a kiss that he tentatively returns. The angle is bad, but she tries to get her point across anyways. “Please. Keep going.”

“It’s going to be— a lot, if you keep your hips down like that,” he warns, and she gives him a weak grin.

“Promise?”

Bellamy snorts, and lets her hips drop to the mattress, keeping his cock inside her. He’s— _oh_. He’s right. His cock feels impossibly larger like this. It’s maybe not as deep as before, but it’s a tight fit. Her cunt feels deliciously stretched wide, even more than it already was.

She lets out a little keen as he moves his hips, and Bellamy chuckles. “Good?”

Clarke nods. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he agrees, nipping at the nape of her neck. He starts out slow, letting her get used to the new position. It _is_ good, she think, very good even, but she’s pretty sure she’s too tired to come again.

Then his hips pick up speed and she thinks, _Oh, never mind_.

He’s panting against the curve of her spine, his weight held up over her by his arms. He covers her completely, their skin pressing together along nearly the whole length of their bodies. He hits a particularly good spot and she shudders; the need, the heat building right back up.

“Fuck, Clarke,” Bellamy groans. “So good for me.”

She wonders if she can slip a hand under her body without him noticing, to press against her clit. Currently, there’s nothing but the dry slide of the bedsheets, and it’s nowhere near enough. She starts to inch her arm under her belly, hips lifting slightly, but Bellamy catches her wrist.

“Let me,” he says, and slides a hand under her pelvis hiking her hips up just enough so he can get at her clit, where she’s burning for him.

“Oh, fuck,” Clarke breathes, her hips jerking as his fingers find their mark.

He presses his lips against her shoulder, fucking into her with vicious thrusts that leave her gasping. “Will you come for me, Princess?”

“I—” Clarke screws her eyes shut tight, her face pinching as she feel the heat inside her grow. “I want—”

His fingers circle her clit furiously, his cock finding her cervix again, even with the change in position. Her cunt spasms at the achy pressure; the feeling halfway between pain and pleasure.

“I’m close,” Bellamy warns, and his voice is wrecked. “Gonna fill you up again.”

“Please,” Clarke says, and breaks, shaking with the waves of her climax. He follows her over with a moan, peppering kisses into the wild gold mane of her hair as his cock twitches. She can feel his cum, warm and wet between her thighs, seeping out when he rolls off of her.

Bellamy tugs her halfway onto him, circling her sweaty shoulders with his arm. He lays back, panting, and smiles. “Fuck.”

Clarke presses a kiss to the skin of his chest, tasting the salt on his skin. “Agreed.”

They lay there for a few long minutes, basking in the afterglow and the warm morning sun. After a while, Clarke shifts and groans, feeling the sticky mess between her legs. “I need to shower.”

Bellamy half stiffens around her. “Oh,” he says, his voice oddly short. “Should I leave?”

Clarke props herself up on his chest, giving him a dubious look. “I mean, I think we should both shower. Together.”

“Oh.” She feels him relax beneath her, and stifles a laugh. With an exaggerated groan, Clarke rolls off him, and holds out a hand. With a smile, Bellamy takes it. 

Tugging him off the bed, she shuffles him into the bathroom, turning on the shower and walking him back against the tiles in the hot stream of water.

“Oh,” he says again, and hikes her knee up, flipping them to press Clarke back against the shower wall. She meets his kiss with her own, lips and teeth and tongues clashing together perfectly.

By the time Bellamy finally leaves, the sun is setting. Clarke watches him dress from the bed, wrapped in a tangled sheet.

“We should get you a bed frame,” he says, pulling on his shirt. She ignores him. He’s right of course, but it can wait.

“Will you come over tomorrow night?” Clarke asks, and Bellamy pauses, looking back at her.

He looks conflicted, guilty; and she feels her heart leap to her throat, fluttering in anxiety. “I shouldn’t.”

“I know,” Clarke says, sitting up on her knees. She lets the sheet drop away from her body, exposing the curve of her breasts, and Bellamy’s throat ticks as he swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “But will you?”

He buttons the last button of his shirt, rolling up the sleeves, then kneels on the bed in front of her. His fingers find her chin, tilting it up so her can press a slow kiss onto her mouth. Clarke blinks at him, wide-eyed, and he smiles.

“Okay.”

She grins back, the curve of it stretching excitedly across her cheeks. “Yeah?”

Bellamy drops another closed-mouth kiss onto her lips and stands. “Yeah.”

She watches him walk to the doorway and pause, her heartbeat steady and satisfied in her chest. For a moment, it looks like he might say something, but his lips remain closed.

“See you soon,” Clarke offers, and he smiles, looking back at her over his shoulder.

“Yeah, Princess,” Bellamy says. “See you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cue clown music*
> 
> Okay so obviously this whole "canon" nonsense sucks, and like JRoth can choke, but I hope you're all doing okay and that I am able to tempt you with a lil comfort food (aka fluffy filthy smut) before we get into the plot nitty-gritty. If that's not your speed and you're trying to cry, I posted a lil post-7x13 oneshot (dreams to ashes, dust to dust) a couple days ago that will probably take care of that for you. 
> 
> Also this fic has been nominated for a variety of awards, so thanks to whoever did that! I love all of you dearly, and cherish all your interactions with this fic. It may not have the hugest following but goddamn if y'all aren't loyal. 
> 
> I'm on twitter @chronictonsil and tumblr @chronictonsillitis if y'all wanna be friends. (also I misspelled cock as sock when I was writing this and it was, frankly, hilarious)
> 
> As always, would love to be fed your kudos and comments


	10. the wedding and the [redacted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s almost overwhelming in its intensity, their lips finding each other like magnets, hands tangling in hair, chests pressed against each other. When he finally draws back they’re both panting, breathless and happy. “This feeling,” Bellamy says, his breath on her face, grinning nearly manically, “I don’t know what it is.”
> 
> Clarke laughs, her eyes fondly tracing the curve of his lips. “Is it God or is it me?”
> 
> “I don’t know.” Bellamy shakes his head, still smiling infectiously. “I don’t know.”
> 
> ****  
> the author is sorry she had to do it to ya

The next few days before the wedding pass in a blur of sex and sweat and desperation.

Clarke has never in her life been so caught up in someone, so caught up in their body and their words and their emotions, not like this. She’s lucky her classes have ended for the session, and that the wedding preparation is basically finished, because she practically loses time as soon as Bellamy’s around.

He doesn’t stay over again, not after the first night, and they don’t talk about it. Clarke’s pretty sure he has priest stuff to do, mass or whatever. She doesn’t want to break the fragile thing they have going by asking.

She doesn’t know how Bellamy spends his days when he’s not with her, but when he knocks on her door, when he comes into her apartment, the two of them are the only thing that matter. 

There’s an informal rehearsal dinner at a nice restaurant the night before the wedding, and he offers to give her a ride. Clarke is relatively sure it’s at least partially to make sure she doesn’t bring Cillian again, which is a moot point anyway. She wouldn’t. Not anymore.

It’s a nice night, uneventful until he fucks her in the bathroom, her cheek flush against the door, dress flipped up over her ass, panties shoved in his pocket.

“You have to be quiet for me, princess,” Bellamy murmurs, his nose pressing against the skin of her throat as he slams his cock into her cervix. 

Clarke shakes her head, her eyes shut tight. She bites down hard on her lip. “I— _oh_.”

His hips stop still and she can’t help but whine. “That’s not quiet,” he says, fingers pressing hard on her clit. “Do you need help?”

She nods. “Please.”

Bellamy grins savagely, his teeth nipping hard at her shoulder. The hand on her clit drags through her folds, sopping up her wetness, then pulls away. Clarke has half a mind to whine again, but then his fingers are at her mouth, pressing against her lips.

“Open,” he says, and she obliges, tasting herself on his fingers. “Good girl.”

He keeps them there, filling up her mouth as his cock starts to move again, dragging thick and heavy along the walls of her cunt. After a week she thought she’d be used to it, used to _him_ , but it’s still big enough to burn deliciously every time. Enough to push her to her limits, and bring her back for more.

“You know what, princess?” His voice is a low whisper, floating across the nape of her neck as he fucks into her hard. “I think you might just want us to get caught.”

She hums around his fingers, trying to deny it, but Bellamy presses down against her tongue.

“I think you like it.” His breath is hot on her skin, lips trailing down the exposed curve of her spine. “I think you like the idea of everyone knowing that the perfect little maid-of-honor is in here getting her perfect little pussy stretched out on my cock.”

Fuck if he’s not completely wrong. Her faces flushes red as she thinks of it, thinks about someone hearing, someone finding finding her and Bellamy like this. It’s filthy, and impractical, and disastrous, but fuck if it isn’t hot. Maybe she _does_ want them to know, wants them to know he’s fucking her, wants them to know she’s _his_.

And— oh, _fuck_. Clarke comes untouched, her cunt rippling around the solid length of his cock. She sucks hard on his fingers to keep back her own cries, desperate to prove she can be good. 

Clarke finishes him off on her knees, Bellamy’s hands fisted in her hair while he fucks her mouth. They sneak out of the restaurant as soon as he gets off, spilling his cum hot down her throat.

They can’t keep their hands off each other in the car, hands fumbling like horny teenagers whenever they hit a stoplight. He follows her into her apartment without a word, slamming her into the wall as soon as the door closes, his mouth hot and sharp and wet on hers. 

He sucks a bruise into the crook of her neck, somewhere she knows will be hard to hide tomorrow at the wedding, but she doesn’t mind. She likes it. 

Their clothes fall off seemingly of their own volition, and he fucks her up against the wall, on the couch, on her bed. His thrusts are bruising, pounding into her cunt, fucking her so well she knows she’ll be sore for days, if not weeks.

It’s frantic, for some reason, the energy high and desperate, not anything like it has been before. Clarke isn’t sure what’s different, but it feels like they’re hurtling quickly towards something new, and she can’t tell what that could be.

They come up for air after the third or fourth time. Clarke’s stomach growls, and even though it’s the middle of the night, Bellamy all but carries her to the kitchen, depositing her bare ass on the counter and rummaging naked through the fridge as she laughs. 

“We need sustenance,” he insists, a goofy smile on his face, and Clarke can’t help but grin back. It’s adorable, reminding her of the teenage boy in the Blake household, the one who used to make her and Octavia blueberry pancakes on Saturday mornings and flick berries across the room when they heckled him for taking too long. She used to know this boy, Clarke thinks. It’s good to see him again.

Bellamy comes up triumphantly with a tub of ice cream, and opens just about every drawer in her kitchen trying to remember where the spoons are. Clarke laughs at his antics. He should know by now really. He’s had dinner here almost every night this week, and God knows Clarke wasn’t the one cooking.

It’s the last one he tries, as it always is. He spins around to her, two spoons in one hand, tub of ice cream in the other.

“Bowls?” Clarke asks.

Bellamy shakes his head, tossing the lid of the carton onto the counter beside her. “Who needs bowls?”

They share the ice cream, the carton resting on Clarke’s thighs, Bellamy standing between her knees. It’s excellent, sweet and cold and wonderful after hours of hot sex, and Clarke can’t help but moan a little around her spoon.

She opens her eyes to find Bellamy watching her, his pupils blown wide. The corners of her lips curl up. “What?”

Bellamy shakes his head, his tongue darting out to lick a drop of ice cream off his mouth. He takes the carton out of Clarke’s hands and sets it aside, stepping forward into her. One of his fingers taps the side of her mouth. “You’ve got a little…”

“Oh?” Clarke looks at him quizzically, playing along. “Maybe you should get it for me.”

Bellamy surges forward with a growl, capturing her lips with his own. He tastes like ice cream and want, and Clarke wraps her feet around his ass to drag him even closer.

He makes her come on his fingers before he fucks her again, his cock driving into her in long strokes, jolting her so hard she has to put a hand up to brace herself on the cabinets behind her.

Her other arm winds around his neck, pulling his face into the curve of her neck. He traces the bruises he’s left on her with his tongue, one hand curled across her throat, pressing her head up and back. “You look so good with my marks on you,” he growls. “So pretty.”

Clarke lets out a moan in response, unable to think of anything but his mouth on her skin, his hand on her throat, his cock filling her cunt to the brim.

When they’re done, he wipes her cunt down gently with a cloth, watching his spend drip out with a distinct satisfaction. His fingers catch some as it leaks from her, and he presses it back inside her pussy with two fingers.

Clarke watches him fondly, her body limp and sated, slumped against the kitchen cabinets. Bellamy’s hand finds her cheek, cupping her face. She smiles and closes her eyes, leaning into the touch.

“You did so good for me, baby,” he says, stroking her cheek. “You ready to go to bed?”

Clarke nods and he chuckles, stepping into her. One of his arms slips under her knees, the other under her shoulders. Clarke winds her arms around his neck as he picks her up, tucking her head against his neck.

She’s asleep before her back hits the mattress.

****

Clarke wakes up with his back to her, the curve of his spine outlined in white by the light of the morning sun. She can’t help but to touch it, running her fingers over the strong muscles, tracing constellations between the freckles that dot his skin.

Her fingers stutter as his shoulders twitch, freezing against his back.

“Wha’time’is’t?” Bellamy mumbles, voice muffled against the pillow. Clarke laughs at the soundand he rolls to face her, one eye looking blearily at her through a messy curtain of dark hair. His lips quirk up as he takes in her expression. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Clarke agrees, curling her body towards him. “It’s early.”

He opens both eyes, raising one eyebrow suggestively. “How early?”

Clarke smiles back, shaking her head. “Not early enough for that.”

“Hmm.” Bellamy grins, stretching out with a sigh. “We’ll see about that.” And then he’s scooping her up in his arms, tossing her over his shoulder like a caveman. 

Clarke lets out a surprised shriek of laughter, clutching at his middle for purchase. “Don’t you dare drop me!”

Bellamy laughs, landing a light smack on her ass as he kicks open the bathroom door, setting her down on the cluttered countertop and turning on the shower. Clarke leans back on her hands and watches him, kicking her feet back and forth. “What in the world has gotten into you?”

His laughter is deep and bright, filling the room. He slides back between her thighs, a broad smile painting his face. It’s like sunshine, like fresh air.

It’s perfect, Clarke thinks. He’s perfect.

His nose nudges against her neck, lips pressing against her collarbone. “I don’t know.”

She giggles, tangling her fingers in his hair and dragging his face up to meet hers. His lips are warm, and she can feel his grin as she kisses him. Pulling back, she looks him in the eyes and drags a finger down the ridge of his nose. 

“I like it,” she says breathily, and he chuckles.

“I like you,” Bellamy replies, hiking her knees up over his arms, lifting her ass off the counter. Clarke wraps her arms around his neck, laughing as he carries her into the shower and presses her up against the tiles under the warm spray.

They kiss long and slow, letting the water run down their bodies. Eventually he lifts her just a little higher, so he can slide his cock into her one more time before they have to go. It’s less frantic than the night before, but no less intense; instead of his hand curling around her throat and his teeth on her skin, it’s gentle kisses, all lips and tongue. 

When Clarke comes it’s with his name on her lips, sweet and true and right.

It’s perfect, she thinks again after they’ve finished, as he helps her rinse the shampoo from her hair.

By the time they get out he really does have to leave, and he throws on his clothes in a hurry, his cheeks bright. Clarke watches from the bed, lounging lazily in her towel. He kneels down in front of her once he’s fully dressed, dragging her face in for a goodbye kiss.

“See you,” she says once he’s pulled back, her voice breathless. 

Bellamy smiles, dropping another peck onto her lips. “See you.”

****

She gets to Monty and Harper’s sometime around noon, well before the wedding is supposed to start.

It’s not going to be the most traditional affair, priest aside. It’ll be in their backyard, just like the engagement party, and Clarke has to be there early to help set up as part of her maid-of-honor duties. 

She spends however long directing caterers and movers, making sure everything is in the right place and looking just as her and Harper had discussed, before going upstairs to see if Harper needs any help getting ready.

Harper’s sobbing when she gets there, and Clarke quickly shuts the door behind her.

She hurries across the room, dropping to her knees beside harper at the vanity. Clarke lays a gentle hand on her friend’s arm. “What’s wrong?” 

Harper looks up with red eyes. “It’s so stupid,” she cries, blotting tears from her face with a tissue. “But—my dress won’t zip.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, a little startled. A much smaller crisis than she’d expected. “That’s okay, we’ll fix it.”

Harper shakes her head tearfully. “We can’t fix it, it’s not broken.” She dissolves in another round of tears and Clarke pats her shoulder reassuringly. “It doesn’t fit.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Clarke tries to soothe, but Harper shakes her head again.

“No, it doesn’t fit, because I’m pregnant.” Harper lets out a big sob. “I shouldn’t have picked this dress. I knew this would happen.”

“Oh,” Clarke says again. She wonders how much Murphy owes Raven this time. “Does— does Monty know?”

“Yes,” Harper admits miserably. “That’s why we didn’t wait any longer. His mom would be so mad if she knew.”

Well, that’s good at least. Now time for damage control. This is what Clarke is best at, why she was maid-of-honor.

“It’s going to be okay,” she promises, gently pulling Harper to her feet. “Let’s try it on and I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

Harper sniffles and nods, rubbing her eyes. “Okay.”

Clarke waits patiently as her friend shucks off her robe, helping her pull the dress over her head. It floats down over Harper’s hips like a shimmer of white, draping beautifully. The problem, Clarke assumes, is at the nipped in waist.

Harper turns, presenting Clarke with her back. Clarke finds the zipper, dragging it up until it stops. She frown, tugging at the resistance, and leans in closer.

“See?” Harper blubbers. Clarke lets out a small laugh, fiddling with the zipper for a second. She pushes, pulls, and— the zipper slides up easily the rest of the way. Harper’s mouth drops open and she spins to face her. “But— how?”

Clarke shrugs, biting her lip. “It was caught on the lace of the waistband. It just needed to be guided through.”

Harper laughs, throwing her arms around Clarke’s neck in a tight embrace. “Thank you! God, I’m so lucky you’re here.”

Clarke jumps a little, surprised, but squeezes her friend back. “Whatever you need, I’ve got you.”

****

As the time ticks closer to the wedding, Clarke goes downstairs to check on everything, see if they need anybody to greet guests. 

She runs into Jasper, already waiting at the door. “Oh,” she says, giving him a weak smile. “Thanks for doing that.”

He calls her back as she tries to leave. “Hey, Clarke!”

There’s nobody there yet, so there no worry about making a scene, but still Clarke is wary. “What’s up?”

“I just—” Jasper trails off, rubbing sheepishly at his head. “Thanks, for covering for me at the dinner. And for stopping me. I, uh— kind of have a drinking problem.”

“Oh.” Clarke is surprised, not really by the news but by the apology. “That’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Jasper says, grimacing, “But thanks anyways. You’re, uh— a good friend, I guess.”

Her eyes widen, something odd and warm filling her chest. Her eyes get a little teary, and she blinks rapidly to clear them. “Thank you.” They both look at each other for a moment, shifting awkwardly. “I should— check on the caterers.”

Jasper nods gratefully. “Yeah, right. Sounds good.”

She walks away with a smile on her face, wiping at her eyes.

****

Clarke bustles around for the rest of the afternoon, making sure everything goes exactly according to plan.

Raven finds her right before the wedding is supposed to start, pulling her to the side. “Hey,” Raven hisses, her eyes concerned. “Where’s your priest?”

Clarke looks around, frowning. “I thought—” she swallows hard, shaking her head. “I’ll go look.”

She checks upstairs first, then the kitchen. Her next thought it the bathroom, so she tries the one on the first floor, walking down the long hallway. 

Bellamy steps out right as she’s about to knock.

“Oh,” he says, and smiles. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Clarke smiles back. “I was worried you got lost.”

Bellamy shakes his head, holding out his arms to display the impressively ornate embroidered robe he’s wearing. “Had to change.”

“Oh my—” Clarke can’t help it, she giggles. “That’s quite something.”

“Something awesome,” he counters, fully believing it. “Well, I should get out there.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees. She steps back to let him pass her.

Bellamy takes one step forward before turning back, grabbing Clarke’s arm and tugging her into the laundry room and slamming her into the wall, kissing her soundly.

It’s almost overwhelming in its intensity, their lips finding each other like magnets, hands tangling in hair, chests pressed against each other. When he finally draws back they’re both panting, breathless and happy.

“This feeling,” Bellamy says, his breath on her face, grinning nearly manically, “I don’t know what it is.”

Clarke laughs, her eyes fondly tracing the curve of his lips. “Is it God or is it me?”

“I don’t know.” Bellamy shakes his head, still smiling infectiously. “I don’t know.” He presses another soft kiss to Clarke’s mouth and draws back. With one last lingering look, he slips out the door and down the hallway. 

Clarke gives herself a moment to catch her breath, running her hands through her hair to pat it down. “Okay,” she says to herself. “Let’s do this."

****

She goes to get Harper for the ceremony, leading her down the stairs to the back door. Clarke won’t be walking down the aisle before her, it will just be Monty and Harper at the altar, and Bellamy of course. Sweet and simple, just like the couple.

“Are you ready?” Clarke asks, and Harper nods, excitement clear on her face. Clarke gives her a hug, careful not to mess up her dress or her makeup. “Good luck.”

She nods to Jasper as she walks to her seat in the front row, who signals the music. Clarke turns to watch her friend come down the aisle, glowing in her white dress and her blissful happiness. 

Monty has tears in his eyes, smiling so wide Clarke thinks his face must hurt. He takes Harper’s hand as she reaches him and brings it to his lips, dropping a kiss onto her skin. Fingers laced together, the two of them turn to face Bellamy.

He clears his throat, and open his bible, a piece of paper tucked between the pages.

“Love is hard,” Bellamy starts, and Clarke can feel his eyes steadfastly avoiding hers. “It is risky, it is scary, it is rash. It makes us do things we never thought we would, say things we never thought we should.”

Clarke can feel the tension in the audience rise as he continues, the crowd unsure of where he could possibly be going with this. Clarke isn’t sure either. It’s not exactly an uplifting way to start a wedding.

“It’s like a disease or an illness, progressive and incurable, pulling us deeper and deeper until we cannot remember what life was like before. It changes us fundamentally, turns us into different people, until even we cannot recognize ourselves. Love is not a pretty thing; it is not easy.” He looks down at the book in his hands, his expression—lost, maybe. Sad. 

“That’s why it’s lucky you two won’t go it alone,” he says finally, his lips curling into a soft smile as he looks up at Harper and Monty. The crowd exhales a collective sigh of relief. “Love may be all those things, but it’s something you will do together, in the company of friends and family, with each other at your side. On this day, and in every day ahead, you will have one another to lean on, to steady, to comfort. And that’s why in the end, love’s not such a terrible thing.”

He catches Clarke’s eye and his smile falters, only for a second, before he dives back into his speech and the start of the actual ceremony.

It’s beautiful, even if Clarke doesn’t understand a damn thing. 

Monty and Harper are so happy, tears on both their cheeks and eyes only for each other. It’s perfect, and Clarke feels a little pang of jealousy that she pushes down. She wants this, someday, but she’s happy that they get to have it now.

The reception happens right after the ceremony, with food and drinks and dancing and laughing. Clarke has to give a speech, and she does it thinking about love, about happiness, and a little bit about Bellamy. 

She dances a little, even letting Murphy sweep her around the dance floor once. He’s uncharacteristically happy tonight, softened by the happiness of his friends. Clarke bets he doesn’t know about Harper’s pregnancy yet.

The night starts to wind down after a few hours, and Clarke is eager to go home. She’s tired, and her feet hurt, and she feels— _off_ , like there’s a storm she can’t see coming. The weird energy from the night before lingers, not just in her sore cunt, but in the uneasy feeling in her stomach, in her heart.

Bellamy finds her talking to Raven in the corner, his vestments draped over his arm.

“Hey,” he says, shoulders stiff. “Raven, nice to see you again.”

Raven snorts, sliding out of her seat. “Sure.” She looks over at Clarke. “Text me when you get home.”

Clarke nods and Raven slips away into the crowd, giving Bellamy a hard look as she passes.

“Well, she’s still terrifying,” he muses.

Clarke laughs. “Only a little.” She kicks playfully at his knees from where she sits in front of him. “You’re the one who slept with her.”

He winces exaggeratedly. “That was— it was a long time ago.”

Clarke rolls her eyes fondly, grinning at him. “I sure hope so.”

Bellamy smiles back at her, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Well, anyways, I’m heading out now, if you— did you want a ride home?”

“Oh,” she says, her back straightening in surprise. “Yeah, thanks.”

They’re quiet on the ride back, both exhausted from the long day and lack of sleep the night before. Clarke leans her head against the window, watching the street lights race past like fireflies against the black expanse of the sky.

Her mind is quiet, content, feeling the significant presence of him at her side like a familiar touch, or a childhood memory. She feels him looking over at her whenever the car stops at stoplights, but she doesn’t look back.

There’s something fragile here, she knows. Something that’s ready to break, if she presses too hard.

“Will you stay?” Clarke asks, as they turn down her street.

Bellamy shakes his head. “Not tonight,” he says, but he turns off the engine as he pulls up next her apartment, taking the keys out of the ignition, and just like the first night, he follows her up to the door.

Clarke hesitates with her keys in her hand. “Do you want to come in?”

“No,” he says, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “But can we—” He gestures down to the stoop and Clarke looks him fully in the eyes for the first time since she’d gotten into his car.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Okay.”

They sit down next to each other on her stoop. Clarke can tell already what he’s going to say by the stiff line of his shoulders, the sad smile on his face. It runs over her like a rush of cold water; not anger, nor misery, but a slow and steady melancholy, resignation settling heavy across her shoulders.

“It’s God, isn’t it?”

Bellamy’s lips pull tight across his face and he nods. Clarke nods back, her heart sinking in her chest.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

Clarke lets out a broken laugh. “You know what the worst part is?” He looks at her with a frown. She smiles back at him through the tears in her eyes. “I fucking love you.”

Bellamy opens his mouth to say something—to apologize?— and Clarke can’t have that, can’t hear that. Not now. She holds out a hand to stop him. 

“Don’t,” she says, sniffling. “Let’s just—leave that out there for a second.”

The night around them is quiet and dark, and Bellamy looks back at her with pained eyes. She smiles again, her cheeks wet. “I love you.”

He puts his hand on hers, his voice soft. “It’ll pass.”

They sit there, heads bowed together, his palm warm against her cold skin, just breathing. Clarke thinks he might be crying too, and it helps.

Eventually the silence grows long, and Bellamy lets out a deep sigh. “I should go,” he says, not moving an inch.

“Okay.”

His head drops a little further forward, so their foreheads touch, and his hand finds her face. Clarke’s eyes close. “I’m sorry.”

She nods, relaxing her shoulders. “I know.”

“I just—” he tries, and she shakes her head. She doesn’t want explanations. She already understands why he’s doing it.

“I know.”

His expression is tight, almost painfully so. His chin dips for a second, their mouths almost close enough to touch, but they don’t. She can feel his breath, warm against her lips. 

Bellamy draws back with a hiss, forcing himself onto his feet.

“I’m guessing I won’t be seeing you,” Clarke says, her voice flat.

He shakes his head. “I— shouldn’t.”

She nods. “Okay. I guess this is goodbye, then.”

“Yeah,” he repeats dumbly. “Goodbye.”

Clarke sees him start to hesitate, but he turns, walking stiffly over to his car and unlocking the door.

He opens the door and just stands for a moment, looking at the keys in his hands. She leans back on her hands, face pointed up towards the sky. There’s something flickering there, maybe a star, maybe a satellite. Probably an airplane, if she’s honest.

“Clarke,” Bellamy calls, and she looks over. His face is lit up gold in the light of the streetlamp, and he gives her a sad smile. “I love you too.”

She swallows down a heavy lump in her throat, smiling weakly back. 

“I know.”

Her eyes find her star again, glinting against the velvet dark of the sky. It is a star, Clarke decides. It is if she wants it to be. 

She doesn’t look back down until she knows he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sad trombone*
> 
> this was always gonna happen and i'm sorry but please do note that this isn't the last chapter. I love you all dearly.
> 
> feel free to rage at me in the comments  
> would love a kudo if you’re new here (what a time to join us tho oof sorry)


	11. dear sister (mmm whatcha say)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it goes, in starts and fits.
> 
> The next day, Clarke hangs out with Raven and Murphy, and she doesn’t let Murphy make her cry: another step forward. The day after, she goes for a run and decides she hates running, but it’s a step forward nonetheless. After a week, she tries to delete Bellamy’s number and fails: a step back. The next few weeks after, she gets a bed frame, and then a dresser, then a bedside table, a dining table, some chairs, a rug; until her apartment is fully furnished; and that’s one, two, three, three, four, five, six steps forward.
> 
> ****  
> Clarke starts to heal, and sorry yeah this fic is simply not done

Healing isn’t linear, Clarke knows that better than anybody. 

It’s not the same, this time; not the way it was with Lexa. For one thing, Bellamy was right: even though things haven’t gone her way, she still has her friends. And beyond that, she has herself.

Clarke lets herself wallow for the rest of the night and wakes up the next day feeling… not necessarily refreshed, but still somehow new. Rolling out of bed, she drags her body into the bathroom, stripping off her clothes. The water is almost too hot, and she scrubs until her flesh is pink and raw, until she can’t feel Bellamy’s hands on her skin anymore.

It’s not enough, of course, but it’s a step forward. 

When she finally climbs out, fingers pruny, air full of steam, she wraps herself in a towel and goes to stand in front of the sink. Clarke brushes her teeth and rinses her mouth, and looks up. Her reflection is obscured by the fog on the mirror, so she reaches out an arm, wiping the condensation away from the glass.

That’s when she sees it.

Clarke’s fingers float tentatively up, coming to rest over the deep purple mark blooming in the crease of her neck. _His_ mark.

She stares at the bruise for a long time, tracing its shape, wishing stupidly for it not to fade. Wishing it would stay with her the way he wouldn’t, the way he _couldn’t_.

A step back.

She strips the bed after getting dressed, piling her dirty clothes and sheets into a hamper and dragging it all to the laundromat: a step forward. That night she opens the fridge to find the leftover Chinese food he brought over three nights ago and ends up crying into microwaved lo mein alone on the couch: a step back.

And so it goes, in starts and fits.

The next day, Clarke hangs out with Raven and Murphy, and she doesn’t let Murphy make her cry: another step forward. The day after, she goes for a run and decides she hates running, but it’s a step forward nonetheless. After a week, she tries to delete Bellamy’s number and fails: a step back. The next few weeks after, she gets a bed frame, and then a dresser, then a bedside table, a dining table, some chairs, a rug; until her apartment is fully furnished; and that’s one, two, three, three, four, five, _six_ steps forward. 

After a month and a half, she goes to the art store for the first time since her first year of college, and comes home with charcoal and canvases and oils and brushes, and sets them up in the corner of her room by the window. Clarke starts to make art again: a step forward.

She realizes the lips she’s painting are from memory, not imagination, and has to put that canvas away unfinished: a step back.

She talks to her advisor, meets with some doctors who aren’t her mother, joins a study group, and realizes she might not hate medical school as much as she thought she did. She starts to try, starts to care. She makes new friends.

In November, she and Jasper wait outside a hospital room as Harper brings a new life into the world, Monty right at her side. Clarke cries happy tears when she meets baby Jordan, and chases after Jasper when the realization that his best friend named his son after him becomes too much, holding him tightly in the hospital parking lot as he sobs into her shoulder. They go back into the hospital together, Clarke’s arm around his back. She sits beside the bed and squeezes Harper’s hand while Monty teaches Jasper how to hold his new godson. Everyone smiles.

Clarke doesn’t go to the christening, but she sends flowers and laughs at the announcement Harper mails out with a photo of Jordan screaming himself blue while a hand pours water over his head. She sticks the picture up on her fridge with a magnet. Clarke doesn’t let herself look too closely at the hand or the fingers or the wrist, but she doesn’t have to.

She’s had those fingers on her tongue, around her throat, between her thighs. She knows who they belong to.

Clarke and Raven organize a potluck for Thanksgiving for those of them who don’t have time off or families to go home to. As it turns out, this is way less people than they expect; in the end just Clarke, Raven, Murphy, Raven’s boyfriend Shaw, Murphy’s girlfriend Emori, and Clarke’s classmate Gabriel. The food is mediocre at best and eventually they find themselves crammed in front of the TV, playing a drinking game to _It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown_.

(“Isn’t that a Halloween movie?” “Your mom’s a Halloween movie.” “Murphy, there is literally a Thanksgiving Charlie Brown special.” “Your mom’s a Thanksgiving Charlie Brown special.” “ _For the love of—_ fine, whatever. Proceed.”)

They follow that with (“You have got to be kidding me.”) the Charlie Brown Christmas special followed by a rerun of the National Dog Show, and by the time they get to the toy group everyone is thoroughly sloshed. 

Clarke and Gabriel simultaneously come to the realization that everyone else in the room has begun making out, and their eyes flick to each other. Clarke blushes red, scrambling forward to collect the assorted dishes from the coffee table. Gabriel trots behind her to the kitchen, setting his own load of glasses by the sink.

He leans back on the counter next to her as she rinses off the pie plates and loads them into the dishwasher. “So that was—”

Clarke snorts. “Yeah, sorry. They’re just— horny bastards.”

“—Fun,” Gabriel finishes, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh,” she stutters, glancing over at him. He looks— comfortable, loosened by the alcohol. Clarke notices, maybe for the first time, that he’s a good looking man. Her eyes fall back to her hands, rinsing off the soap and wiping them down. She clears her throat. “Can I— can I try something?”

She turn to face him fully, and he looks back, lips quirked in an amused grin. “Sure,” he says. “Why not?”

Clarke nods, and kisses him.

Gabriel responds quickly, stepping closer and tangling his hands in her hair to pull her closer. It feels nice, feels good. The kisses get hungrier, more heated, until Clarke’s hips are pressed up against the counter behind her, his hands planted on either side. When she pulls back, she wraps her hand around his wrist, pulling him behind her through the occupied living room into her bedroom. She makes no move to turn the lights on, just turning her body back to face his.

“What about your friends?” Gabriel asks, lips dragging down the column of her throat. 

Clarke shakes her head, wrapping her arms around his neck. “They know the way out.”

She lets the alcohol in her veins push her ahead, finding his lips again with her own as his hands sit warm on her hips. And it’s not— but it’s still nice, still good.

She helps him tug his shirt over his head, walking backwards towards the bed, and lets him unzip her dress, slipping the fabric off her shoulders. They climb onto the bed together on their knees, hands roaming over each other’s skin. It’s a little slow, a little careful, lacking the desperation Clarke almost expects. The bed too is different, higher than she thought it should be. The bed frame, she realizes. Of course.

His hands span over the skin of her back. “Is this okay?” Gabriel asks into the curve of her collarbone, fingers fumbling with the clasp of her bra.

Clarke nods, her eyes closed tight. “Yes.” Her eyebrows pull together, lips pursing. “I want this.”

His fingers stop, and he draws back. “Clarke,” he says, swallowing hard. She opens her eyes, watching curiously as his throat bobs. “I can’t— I mean, if you’re looking for anything— anything _more_ than just—”

She presses a soft kiss to his lips, stopping his words. “I’m not.”

Gabriel searches her eyes for a moment then nods. “Okay.”

He pops the clasp of her bra.

They kiss for a while more. Clarke helps him out of his pants, and they lie with bodies pressed together, his cock hard against her thigh. Gabriel teases her cunt until she’s wet and ready, she hands him a condom from the drawer in her bedside table, he slides his cock inside her easily without any special warmup. 

It’s all— fine. Good, she means. It’s good.

They fuck with their eyes closed, faces pressed into each other’s shoulders, Clarke’s arms wrapped around his neck. They don’t speak: no pet names, no encouragement, no dirty talk. He gets her off with his fingers, rubbing her clit until she comes on his cock; and follows behind, groaning into her hair.

They lie flat on their backs after he takes care of the condom, looking up at the ceiling in silence. The TV is off in the living room, no noises coming from beyond the door, so the rest of them must have gone home. The city is quiet in a way it only is during the holidays: no yelling, no honking, no sirens; only the soft sounds of distant cars.

Clarke curls towards him, resting her head on her bent arm. “So who is she?”

Gabriel makes no attempt to pretend he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “Josie. She’s, uh— my ex, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke offers. “Did she give you a reason?”

“No, uh—” he stutters, and she watches as his hand clenches and relaxes, his jaw tight. “I ended it, actually.” He sighs, chest falling. “We weren’t good for each other. I couldn’t give her what she needed.”

“What did she need?” Clarke asks, her voice soft in the dark room.

He swallows. “Someone to tell her no.”

Clarke hums, something in her chest aching anew. She feels a lump grow in her throat, and her eyes burn. She rolls over onto her back again, blinking up at the ceiling.

“And yours?” Gabriel asks the question gently, like he’s afraid to spook her. Clarke feels his eyes on her but keeps her gaze upwards, willing the tears away. “Did they give you a reason?”

“The same, I guess,” she mumbles, shrugging limply. “Couldn’t be what he needed either.”

Gabriel shifts, turning his body to face hers. “Which was?”

Clarke bites her lip. For the first time in a long time, she lets herself think about Bellamy, lets herself think about the way he’d been when she was in high school: the love he had for his mom, for his sister. His excitement about learning, and teaching. The way he’d joked around with his friends after school, the work he’d put into the shitty old Land Cruiser Miller had found in the used car lot for only $300.

She thinks about how whenever she came by the church, he’d been there, alone; about the week before Monty and Harper’s wedding, and how he never had other plans; about the night he left her, and the misery on his face.

Something like understanding blooms warm in her chest, easing the ache. A single tear slides down her cheek, but it’s not devastation that lets it fall, no: it’s acceptance. 

“A reason enough to leave.”

****

The next week she calls her mom for the first time in eight months.

She goes home for Christmas.

Sometimes Clarke thinks maybe Bellamy was right, when he said it would pass. The pain at least seems to. The love is another story altogether, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe she can love someone she can’t have and not have it ruin her. Maybe she can finally allow that she couldn’t be everything for him without feeling like she’s nothing as a result. 

Maybe she can be happy for herself, by herself.

****

It’s been almost a year when Clarke sees her.

Not him, _her_.

Clarke’s across town from her apartment, walking to the train station after a long night of clinical rotations. She’s wearing her dirty scrubs, looking rumpled and disheveled, and she’s so tired she almost thinks it’s a dream when she sees the back of the girl’s head moving down the stairs to the station. 

She follows almost mindlessly, her eyes never leaving the long brown hair that swishes just a little too far in front of her. Eventually, they reach the platform and the girl stops, turning to face the tracks.

Clarke’s breath leaves her in a whoosh, and her steps stutter as she approaches. 

“Octavia?”

The brunette turns to look at her, a frown on her face, eyebrows pinched together. The expression falls away as she recognizes who’s calling to her. “Clarke?”

Clarke comes to a stop in front of her old friend, cataloguing the changes. She looks older, of course, but so does Clarke. She also just looks so— so familiar, and not because she’s Clarke’s high school bestie. Octavia looks like her brother, like Bellamy.

They used to fight about it, back in the day. Octavia insisted there was no way she’d ever resemble ‘that oaf, thank you very much’, and in a way she was right. It was always clear they had two different dads from the shape of their bodies, his broad and hers lithe; the structure of their faces, the shades of their skin. But Clarke could always tell they were siblings.

It was something about the way they held themselves: the same stubbornness, the same lift of their chins, the same heat to their gaze. Not to mention that both were unfairly beautiful.

“It’s good to see you,” Clarke says, her throat bobbing. She steps forward awkwardly, pulling Octavia into a hug. So what if they’d left things on a bad note? It’s been years.

Octavia thankfully returns the squeeze, pressing her face into Clarke’s shoulder. When they step back she looks up, wiping under her eyes with the back of her finger. “Do you— uh, do you live around here?”

Clarke shakes her head. “No, I’m across town. I just have rotations at the hospital over here.”

“Right, right.”

Clarke waits for her to continue, but Octavia looks down at her feet, shifting uncomfortably. “Will you be in town for a while? Or just visiting?”

She can tell her voice is unnaturally high, and she knows that Octavia knows what that means; that she’s nervous. She’s not sure exactly what she wants the other woman’s response to be. Her hearts starts to beat unevenly, stuttering as her minds swirls with thoughts. 

Maybe Octavia’s just here to see Bellamy. Maybe they’ve made up. Maybe he’s told his sister how Clarke had tried to ruin his life and pull him out of the church and make him break his vows and—

Clarke takes a deep breath. 

He hasn’t. She knows he wouldn’t do that.

“Just moved here, actually,” Octavia responds, shrugging. She gesture down at her outfit, a sharp pantsuit. “I’m coming from a job interview.” 

Clarke gives her a weak smile.

She’s gotten better at talking herself down when her mind starts to panic, gotten better at knowing when the scenarios she’s imagining are within the realm of possibility. Part of it involves reconciling her opinions on the character of her friends to her fears of being hated, of being abandoned. Because how can they be the people she thinks they are, if they would do the things she's worried they'll do?

Would Bellamy blame what happened on Clarke? No. She’s not even sure it’s a situation that requires blame. It just— happened. To both of them, for both of them.

“Well, welcome, then!” She forces herself to be cheery, upbeat. “We should hang out sometime, catch up. Actually…” Clarke checks her watch, her stomach growling. “Do you have somewhere to be? There’s a diner across the street that has pretty good breakfast.”

There’s a moment where Clarke is sure the other woman is going to say no, going to politely turn her down and board the next train out of Clarke’s life, this time for good, but then Octavia nods. “Sure, that sounds good.”

Clarke smiles, shoving her hands in her pockets and leading the two of them up out of the station. They cross the street shoulder to shoulder, and it feels good, feels familiar. They choose the last booth in the diner, sliding in across from each other. 

The waitress brings them coffee and menus, and they settle in, flipping silently through the menu pages. They both order the same thing, just like they always have. It’s nice, Clarke thinks. Nostalgic.

She’s missed her.

They talk for a while about dumb things, about high school, and old boyfriends. Clarke tells her about med school, about her art.

“So how have you been?” Clarke asks finally, and Octavia doesn’t flinch, but it’s close. For the first time that morning, Clarke notices how sad she looks, how pale.

“Not great,” Octavia admits, fidgeting with her cup of coffee. “I’m new to the city, and I— it’s tough, not knowing anybody around here, I guess.”

Clarke’s mind flits to Bellamy, in his church just across town, and she wonders. Octavia lifts the mug to her lips and Clarke’s eyes catch on a delicate set of rings. “You’re married? Congratulations!”

This time Octavia does flinch, and Clarke back-pedals immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Octavia says gently, even though Clarke can tell it decidedly is not. “It’s— Well, he—”

Clarke sets her hand on top of Octavia’s across the table and squeezes, watching as the other girl gulps. She brings it back to her lap.“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I want to,” Octavia insists. Her eyes close and she takes a deep breath, letting her shoulders relax. 

“I’m not sure if you remember Lincoln, we started dating at the end of senior year.” Octavia looks at her for confirmation and Clarke nods. “We got engaged around graduation, and married a year later. Fast, I know, but when it’s right, you just know.”

She looks down, blinking hard. “He uh— he died, a few months ago. It was our anniversary, we were coming home from dinner and a drunk driver hit the passenger side of our car.”

And— _oh_. There's no words for that, nothing Clarke can do to make it better. She's seen the aftermath of car accidents, seen the families in the waiting room, seen the bad news. 

Octavia shakes her head, wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s just— I was fine, you know? Didn’t even break a bone. And Lincoln’s just— gone.”

Clarke doesn’t even know what to say. When she’d lost her dad, at least she hadn’t been there, hadn’t known. “I’m so sorry."

“Yeah, well—” Octavia lets out a wet laugh. “That’s why I’m here I guess. In the city, I mean. I couldn’t live in our house anymore, not somewhere that was so— so _ours_.” She waves her hands in a somewhat defeated gestured. “Probably should’ve thought it through a little more. I don’t know anybody here outside of the people I’ve interviewed with. You’re the first person I’ve really spoken to in weeks.”

But that’s wrong, isn’t it? There _are_ more people Octavia knows in the city. Her brother, for instance.

Clarke chews on her lip, considering how to broach the topic. It’s been years, admittedly, and even for Octavia that’s a long time to hold a grudge. And she’s all alone, and she’s lost someone, and— what is the right thing to do?

“O, can I just— have you talked to Bellamy?”

“No, I—” Octavia takes a deep breath, flinching slightly. “I haven’t spoken to him since graduation, actually. I— we got in a fight, and I left. Deleted his number, changed mine. By the time I got over it —by the time Lincoln talked me down— I couldn’t find him. His cell, all his social media— all taken down.” She looks down at the table. “Guess he finally was done with me.”

Clarke has a bad habit of sticking her nose into places it shouldn’t be, and this is something she’s well aware of. In this instance though, she thinks— well.

“If you could see him, talk to him, would that— would you want to?” Her throat is weirdly thick, chest tight. She wants to give them this, if she can. She knows Bellamy would want to see his sister, more than anything. And Clarke agreed not to be in his life anymore, so she won’t. But that doesn’t mean she can’t give him this. He deserves this. _They_ deserve this, both.

“Yes,” Octavia breathes, her eyes sparkling. “Yes.”

Clarke reaches her hand back across the table, taking Octavia’s. “I know where he is.”

****

They go to the church together. 

Clarke doesn’t really want to explain why she shouldn’t be there, so she doesn’t. She gets on the train with Octavia, holds her hand as they cross town. She can feel Octavia's hands shaking but she doesn’t say anything, just squeezes a bit tighter. Her hands are probably shaking too.

Clarke is struck with an overwhelming sense of deja vu as they come up out of the station. The church is on a hill across the street, standing proud and tall with it’s steeple and stained glass, lit up by the morning sun.

Octavia stops short. “Why are we—?” 

“Just trust me,” Clarke says. She pulls her along and Octavia gives in, walking by her side up the steps to the open doors. Clarke hesitates as they get closer, her feet unwilling to cross the line in the sand Bellamy had drawn all those months ago. 

Octavia looks at her in confusion, but Clarke can feel her friend's eager nervousness urging her to run ahead. “I’ll wait out here for a bit. If you need me—” Her voice breaks off. 

She won’t need her.

Octavia nods, giving Clarke a shaky smile. “Wish me luck?”

Clarke pulls her in for a tight hug, her eyes closing. She can feel heat behind them, tears starting to build up. “Good luck.”

Pulling back, Octavia gives her another smile, letting out a breath. “Alright.”

And she goes inside.

Clarke takes a few steps away from the door, lingering at the top of the steps. She knows Bellamy will be thrilled to see Octavia, know it will be fine, but she promised, so she waits. She looks towards the street, her ears straining to listen inside the church.

Eventually there’s a squeal, and a thump. A whoosh of air. A deep voice, broken and shaky. “Oh my god, O.”

Clarke can’t help it, she looks.

There are the Blakes, together again. They’re in the middle of the church, down the aisle towards the altar. Bellamy’s arms are wrapped around his sister, his face buried in her shoulder. Octavia’s head is against his chest, and her body is shaking with sobs. 

“I’m sorry, Bell,” she cries. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I know,” he says back, his voice low and scratchy. “It’s okay, I know. I’m sorry too.”

Tears spill over Clarke’s eyes, and she turns away. She wipes them off her face as she makes her way down the steps, a small smile slipping across her lips. 

It’s good, she thinks, to see them happy. It’s so good.

She goes home alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so....... it's not done
> 
> but hey!! more time for sex!
> 
> I updated the chapter count to 12 but....idk we'll see she may need more
> 
> ily guys sleep well and leave me a comment if you get a chance


	12. The Audacity (of this bitch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The glimpse she’d gotten of Bellamy had been like a drink of water for a drowning woman, like the smell of a cigarette to someone who’s long quit smoking, like a gust of air on a lit coal.
> 
> It makes her skin itch, like somethings crawled back under it that she can’t get out. The awareness of him that she didn’t realize faded come back in full force. For the last however long she’s been able to pretend like he wasn’t there, like he wasn’t just a train ride away, but her trip to the church shattered that peace.
> 
> ****  
> a chapter??? with no smut???? it's more likely than you think (i'm sorry despite my best efforts this fic does have a plot tho you know)

The next two weeks go by as they normally do, which feels wrong.

Something feels irrevocably shifted to Clarke, like something in the world was just out of line and now is finally back to where it started, but she is in the same place. She wakes up, makes coffee, goes to rotations, comes home, eats alone.

She probably should have gotten Octavia’s number, she realizes, but it’s too late for that. And besides, she doesn’t really know how she would have managed to interact with her while avoiding her brother.

Not that she wants to.

The glimpse she’d gotten of Bellamy had been like a drink of water for a drowning woman, like the smell of a cigarette to someone who’s long quit smoking, like a gust of air on a lit coal.

It makes her skin itch, like somethings crawled back under it that she can’t get out. The awareness of him that she didn’t realize faded come back in full force. For the last however long she’s been able to pretend like he wasn’t there, like he wasn’t just a train ride away, but her trip to the church shattered that peace.

She’s not any more lonely than she has been, and she hasn’t really been all that lonely, not for a long time. But she feels his loss keenly, like a phantom limb.

She remembers in high school the time he’d taken her and Octavia to go paint-balling, and had shown no mercy while absolutely demolishing the two girls. They’d ganged up on him for revenge, and he’d just stood there and laughed as they pelted him with paintballs. He took them out for ice cream afterwards, all of them coated in bright colors.

She remembers when her dad died, and he and Octavia had guarded her at the funeral, keeping away any well-meaning relatives because they knew she didn’t want to talk to anyone.

She misses him, misses them both.

Life goes on, nonetheless. It’s a weird ache, definitely fresh on the healed wound that was the way things ended, but not quite a deep. Like picking off an old scab.

Clarke wishes— well.

Monday of the third week she invites Gabriel to come over after rotations, somewhat of a standing occasion with them. He’s been ingratiated somewhat into their group, his fling with Clarke on Thanksgiving laughed off as a one-time deal by the both of them. 

It’s not, quite, but there’s nothing more than friendship between them.

They take the train back from the hospital together, both wearing grimy scrubs and looking like hell warmed over, but in good spirits. There’s a wine store near her apartment, and she lets him pick out something from Portugal she’d probably never buy herself with no argument.

The general rule they’ve come to about hanging out after a shift is that they both get to shower.  It’s the only way either of them will allow going anywhere straight after work. The hospital leaves you feeling grimy no matter how clean you are.

Clarke lets Gabriel go first, ordering Indian food for the both of them while he’s in the shower. They switch, and she spends longer than is probably polite under the spray. By the time she’s out and dressed in shorts and a tank-top, the food is there.

They eat their takeout on the couch, drinking wine and burning their tongues off on an especially spicy batch of vindaloo.

“So,” Gabriel asks, shoving a piece of naan in his mouth. “Are you gonna tell me where you’ve been the past couple weeks or do you want me to guess?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You know where I’ve been.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes, not falling for her bullshit for a single second. That’s one of the more annoying things about him. He’s too perceptive. Understands Clarke just a little too well.

“Does it have to do with he-who-must-not-be-named?”

Clarke kicks him, frowning. “You can name him all you want.” She pauses. “And yes, it does.”

He hums. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I saw his sister a couple weeks ago.”

“Okay?”

“I haven’t seen her since high school, and— neither has he. She bailed on him after a fight, it was part of the reason he joined the church. And I saw her waiting for the train, all alone and—” Clarke looks down at her hands. “I don’t know.”

“Did you talk to her?”

Clarke nods. “We went out to breakfast, caught up, and then I took her to see Bellamy.”

She says it nonchalantly but she feels anything but. Even thinking of it makes her chest feel tight, her skin feel itchy again. Makes her think maybe she should’ve—

“Oh,” Gabriel says, sitting back. His eyebrows raise slightly. “Okay, wow. Did you talk to him?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t even mean to see him, but I just— I wanted to check. They looked happy. I don’t have any way of contacting her or vice-versa, but I assume it went well.”

“Are you doing okay with— you know?”

Clarke shrugs. “Better than expected.”

“Fuck,” Gabriel whistles. “Well, I’m here if you need me.”

Clarke hums, setting her plate onto the coffee table and curling up in the corner of the couch. “Thanks. Wanna watch something?”

It’s a bit of an excuse to end the conversation, but Gabriel takes it gamely. She’s not really ready to go into all her feelings about the Bellamy situation, for no small part because she’s not even sure about them herself.

They’ve been slowly watching their way through one of those never ending sci-fi shows on Netflix, so Clarke pops that on and they watch a few episodes in comfortable silence.

She thinks— maybe she had some romantic ideas at the beginning about Bellamy changing his mind, leaving the church, begging her to take him back. And maybe she thinks that some logic could suggest he might leave the church for less romantic reasons now that Octavia is back in his life, but then again, maybe not.

She doesn’t want to get her hopes up either way.

Eventually, Gabriel yawns and stretches, heaving himself off the couch. “Well, I should probably head home.”

Clarke rolls her shoulders back, pushing herself up to standing. “I’ll walk you out.”

She leans on the back of the couch, watching as he puts on his shoes and gathers up his stuff, shoving his dirty scrubs into his bag.

“Want to finish the season next week?” Gabriel asks, and Clarke nods lazily, following him to the door. He sets his bag down, shrugging on his coat.

“See you.” She gives him a kiss on the cheek that makes him roll his eyes and opens the door.

Bellamy stands on her threshold, his hand poised to knock. “Oh,” he says, mouth open.

He’s just— there. He’s really there. On her porch, wearing jeans, looking like— well, looking like he hasn’t slept in weeks, but like no time has passed at all. It’s been a year, and now he’s _there_ and Clarke doesn’t even know how to speak.

Gabriel looks in between the two of them, both practically frozen. After a few long moments of silence he clears his throat. “Okay then. Clarke, lunch tomorrow?”

Clarke blinks at him dumbly. “Right, sure.” Gabriel moves to slip past Bellamy and she startles, shaking her head to clear the fog. “Wait!” She snatches his sleeve to stop him, and grabs his bag off the floor. “Your stuff.”

Bellamy looks from the duffle to Clarke, to her outfit. His eyes are wide. 

Clarke can feel her cheeks burning. Gabriel gives her a significant look, tilting his head. Her lips tighten slightly and she knows he understands. He takes the bag, giving her a nod before loping down her steps, striding off down the street towards the train station.

She turns back to Bellamy, his eyes following Gabriel’s back. “A friend of mine. From med school.”

“It’s none of my business,” Bellamy says, voice cracking slightly.

And, of course, it isn’t, but Clarke can’t help but feel something start to burn in her belly at the familiar tightness in his expression.

“Come in,” she says, and it isn’t a request.

She doesn’t look at him as she steps back into her apartment, holding the door open for him to follow. He does, hesitantly, lingering by the doorway as she sweeps into the living room, picking up her and Gabriel’s dishes from dinner off the coffee table.

“You got furniture.” His voice is unsteady, and he wrings his hands with a pained expression.

“I did,” Clarke agrees, setting the plates into the sink. “You’re welcome to sit if you want. The couch is the same.”

“That’s okay.”

Clarke looks sharply at him to find him giving the couch a bleak look, almost nauseated. She realizes he must think that she and Gabriel— that they may have been doing what Clarke and Bellamy used to do on the couch.

“So, I’m guessing there’s a reason you’re here,” she says cooly, much more calm than she feels.

He looks at her for a moment like he doesn’t understand what she’s saying, watching as she comes to stand in front of him. Clarke crosses her arms over her chest protectively, raising one eyebrow.

“O,” Bellamy blurts out eventually. “She wanted to thank you. For bringing us back together. She wants to get together with you, get drinks or something, but she didn’t know how to get in touch.”

“Did she?” 

Obviously, Clarke does want to see Octavia. But if Octavia wanted to see her, Bellamy could’ve given her Clarke’s address. He didn’t have to come here himself.

It’s an excuse, and she’s not sure why he bothers.

“I’d like that,” Clarke says carefully. “But why are _you_ here?”

“I—,” He clears his throat, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “I just wanted— I thought I should to tell you that I’ve asked for dispensation to leave the clergy.”

She feels the words jolt through her like an electric shock. 

“Oh.” 

And Clarke— she doesn’t know what to do with that. She turns away, swallowing through a dry mouth. “How long will that—”

“A couple months, at least,” he finishes for her. He takes a step towards her back. “Clarke, this isn’t—” His voice cuts off, strangled.

She blinks hard, willing her eyes to stay dry. Her hands clench. Of course it isn’t. Of course. But still— “Isn’t what?”

“You don’t have to feel like you— owe me anything. I just thought you should know.”

_Owe him any_ — Clarke laughs humorlessly, spinning to face him. He looks down at her, his eyes unreadable, and she’s—she’s _tired_. “Bellamy, why are you here? Why are you really here, I mean. I think we both know I don’t feel beholden to you.”

“I—” He gulps, taking a deep breath. “I’m leaving the church because I want more from life, and I think— I think maybe it’s possible for me to do it now without leaning too hard on any one person. I didn’t want— I couldn’t leave for you.” Clarke flinches and he shakes his head frantically, taking a step towards her. His hands find her wrists. 

“What more is there to say, then?” Clarke asks. She tugs at his grip, but he holds firm. “I’m glad you could—find what you needed. You deserve that.”

“Hey,” he says softly. “Clarke. Look at me, please.” Clarke bites her lip, meeting his eyes. “I couldn’t put that all on you, Clarke. It wouldn’t have been fair. But now— I’m leaving, and I want you to be a part of my life, if you’d still want that. In whatever way you’d want.”

Her lips turn down at his logic even as her heart jumps at his words. She frowns, shaking her head. “But you could put it all on Octavia? On your sister who you haven’t seen in years? How does that make sense?”

“I—” he pauses, looking down. There’s a long beat of silence that leaves her breathless. “I asked before she came back. To leave.”

_Oh._

“Oh,” Clarke whispers. “You did?”

Bellamy nods, his eyes finding hers again, his anxiety palpable. “I started looking into it— fuck, I don’t know.” His thumb tentatively strokes the underside of her wrist, the soft touch raising hairs on the back of her arm. “Maybe nine months ago? But it took time for me to be ready, to _feel_ ready.”

Her heart thumps unevenly in her chest. So long.

She stares up at him, relishing in the warmth of his palms on her skin. She can smell him, now, so close and familiar, so comforting. Like coming home. 

Clarke nods. “Okay.” Her eyes flutter shut, and she takes a deep breath. She’s— so fucking angry, even with the joy of having him there, of having him tell her he’s done, finally. But he _is_ there, and he _is_ done. And that’s— that’s something. “Can I— can I hug you?”

He makes a low noise, pulling her forward into a crushing embrace. She presses her cheek to his chest, willing away the tears that threaten at her eyes.“I’m sorry,” he whispers, dropping a kiss into her hair. “I missed you.”

“I missed you,” Clarke agrees shakily. She pulls back after a long minute, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “How’s O?”

Bellamy lets out a small laugh. “She’s— she’s good. I mean, not really, but— I think it’s good, us finding each other. Or— you bringing her to me.”

Her chest feels warm. “Of course. _Of course_. Maybe we could all go out for dinner or something. Or drinks, like you said.”

“Right,” he says, drawing back. “Like I said.” The joy on his face dims slightly, his shoulders sinking. “And if you wanted to invite your boyfriend—”

Clarke can’t help it, she laughs in his face.

“Are you serious?”

Bellamy’s eyes darken. “What? Do you not want us to meet him? I think it would be fine.”

She can’t say she doesn’t like it, the jealousy. But it’s not— it’s not fair, after everything. Not when they’ve just started speaking again. 

HIs grip on her arm tightens almost imperceptibly, and Clarke swallows hard. “Bellamy,” she says softly. Her hand comes up to touch his cheek. “It’s been nearly a year. You have to stop. I’m— I’m not yours.”

The words hurt her probably just as much as they hurt him.

Bellamy releases her immediately, taking a step back. “Sorry,” he says gruffly, looking down at the ground. “Your, uh— _love life_ is none of my business. Obviously. I just thought— if you wanted to bring him, you can. That’s all.”

“Okay.” Her voice is gentle. “Thank you.” She looks at him, takes in his tortured expression, and feels a little guilty for not correcting his misconception. “Bellamy.”

He meets her eyes.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” 

She sees his throat tick. “He’s not?”

Clarke shakes her head. “No.”

Bellamy closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath. The tension on his face visibly decreases, hard lines relaxing. “Okay. Thank you— for telling me.”

Clarke steps past him, brushing against his side as she moves to the kitchen. “Would you— do you want some wine? We could catch up.”

It’s an almost desperate ploy. She doesn’t want him to leave yet, especially not so soon after all that. She missed him. She wants— she wants more. More time, more Bellamy.

“Yeah,” he says thickly, and clears his throat. His hand comes up to ruffle through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. Clarke’s cheeks pink. “That would be nice.”

****

He stays longer than he probably should, Clarke knows.

They have two glasses of wine each, sitting on the sofa now that he’s gotten over his fear of its possible defilement.

She tells him about school, about Gabriel, about her mom, and her art. He tells her about Pike, about his friend Miller who’s moved to town, about Octavia.

They don’t mention his eminent departure from the church.

They don’t have to.

Eventually her eyes start to grow heavy despite herself, the wine and the anxiety and the long day at the hospital catching up to her. Bellamy notices, of course.

“I think I should head out.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, biting her lip. “Okay.”

Is this—? Will he be back? They haven’t discussed the future at all, or how they think this will go. She doesn’t want this to be it until— until whenever he decides to show up again.

Bellamy notices her discomfort as well. “Hey,” he says gently. “Give me your phone.”

Her eyebrows pull together but she obliges, unlocking it and handing it over. He taps a few things out and passes it back. “There. Now you’ve got Octavia’s number. And— and mine.”

Clarke nods, relief flooding through her veins. “Good.”

She watches as he shuffles off the couch, unfolding his long legs and stretching. Her eyes catch on the the sliver of stomach that peeks out as he raises his arms, her cheeks turning pink. 

She feels— like a schoolgirl with a crush, but somehow in a good way, not like before. In a safe way.

Clarke follows him to the door, walking him out. She leans in the doorway as he steps onto the stoop, turning to face her.

“Alright, well— see you, I guess.” Bellamy pauses, looking at her with an expression she can’t quite place. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, but it’s clearly something. She waits. “Will you text O about dinner?” 

It’s not the question she’s expecting, but Clarke nods. “Of course.”

Bellamy nods back, swallowing hard then— he tugs her into a hug. Clarke returns it quickly, relishing in the warmth of his embrace, the strength. She winds her arms around his neck, coming up on her toes so her forehead presses against his. Her eyes close.

“How long are we going to keep doing this?” The words are soft, careful.

“Doing what?” Bellamy breathes. His chin dips down like he might kiss her, but he pulls back up at the last second.

Clarke clenches her eyes shut tighter, lips pressing together in a hard line. “Pretending this is enough.”

“Isn’t it?” She shakes her head and he sighs. “I know.” His fingers find a bit of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “Just a little longer, yeah, Princess? Just a couple months.”

Clarke tilts her chin, mouth bobbing just in front of his. “Couldn’t we just—”

Their lips brush against each other, just barely, just enough, and Bellamy groans. “Please,” he begs. “Just let me do this one thing right, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, settling back on her heels. She pulls away, offering him her hand.

He looks at it curiously, one eyebrow raised. His lips quirk up in an amused smile as she thrusts it out more insistently, and he takes it.

Clarke smiles, giving his hand a firm shake. “Goodbye, Bellamy. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

She drops his hand, stepping back from the door. Bellamy shakes his head, grinning widely. “Bye, Clarke.”

_I love you_ , she thinks, as she watches him bound down her steps, but it’s alright. She leans against the door as he climbs into his car. Bellamy catches her eye through the window and she smiles back at him, heart calm in a way she’s not sure it ever has been before.

They have time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this chapter is bad you can blame ao3 user who_needs_reality bc she told me to post it
> 
> I love you all dearly and am sorry that took so long
> 
> don't worry folks make-up sex is nigh (chapterwise at least, idk how long it's gonna take to write)
> 
> a comment if you would? a kudo?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking prompts through [The t100 Fic for BLM Initiative](https://t100fic-for-blm.carrd.co) if you need anything
> 
> yell at me on twitter [@chronictonsil](https://twitter.com/chronictonsil)


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